


The Mouths of Babes

by mrhd



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Established Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 62,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24495382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrhd/pseuds/mrhd
Summary: After a talk with a sorcerer goes wrong, Jaskier is left with a child version of his partner. He and Geralt travel, looking for a cure, learning more about each other along the way.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 475
Kudos: 1081
Collections: Geraskier, Ships





	1. Chapter 1

Geralt beheads the sorcerer in the same moment the blast of magic hits him.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouts from where he’s hiding. Geralt had brought him along, because they were just supposed to be talking, there wasn’t supposed to be a fight, but now the sorcerer’s head is on the ground and Geralt’s collapsed. “Shit!” Jaskier says, scrambling out from behind the upturned table.

The sorcerer’s blood is trailing steadily over the floor, red and sticky, and Jaskier takes care to step around it, over it, as he makes his way to Geralt.

The closer he gets, the more obvious it is that something is wrong. Geralt’s clothes are in a pile on the ground where he fell, but they look shapeless, deflated, and Jaskier can’t see Geralt’s head or hands sticking out of them. He really hopes that whatever the sorcerer has turned Geralt into it’s something small and easily carried to the next available mage.

The pile shifts and Jaskier goes still, readying himself, bent at the knees and on the balls of his feet, ready to move, like Geralt taught him. Just in case Geralt’s been turned into something nasty. Properly scary, that is, not nasty like a slug.

There’s muffled swearing from the pile, which is a relief. At least Geralt _hasn’t_ been turned into a slug or something. Unless he’s been turned into a talking slug, which is a horrible thought.

He hasn’t been. Eventually Geralt frees himself from the pile and he’s…

A child.

Jaskier stares. The child is nude, clearly far too small to fit in any of Geralt’s large witcher clothing. His hair is long, like Geralt’s, but _brown_ and curly. When he turns around Jaskier knows it’s Geralt just from the scowl on his face, even though he still has his baby fat on his cheeks and his skin is tanned, not as unnaturally pale as it would one day become. His eyes are the same sharp gold too, glaring holes through Jaskier.

“Who are you?” the child demands, voice high and unbroken. “What have you done to me?” He already holds his body like it’s a weapon, and Jaskier knows he has to be careful if he doesn’t want to fight Geralt. Even like this, with Geralt small and confused, Jaskier doesn’t think he could win.

He raises his hands, showing he means no harm. “My name is Jaskier. I haven’t done anything to you, that was him,” he says, gesturing with his foot to the decapitated corpse.

Geralt looks at it briefly, clearly unwilling to take his eyes off of Jaskier for long. “Who was he?” All his questions are harsh and clipped, more like demands for information than polite inquiries.

“Some sorcerer. He’d been cursing the livestock of the local townsfolk, they’d paid us to come talk to him.”

“‘Paid _us_?’” Geralt repeats. “You are no witcher.” There’s something different about his speech, an accent that’s decidedly different from the faint Rivian one he normally has, but one that Jaskier can’t place.

“Well, they paid you,” Jaskier allows. “But you let me come with, and you were going to share your coin with me.”

“Why would I do that?” Geralt asks, his eyes narrowing. He takes a step closer.

“Because we’re…traveling companions,” Jaskier manages. Lovers, partners…he imagines anything like that would send Geralt running. Or make him sound like a liar.

Geralt continues to consider him, every line in his small body tense. “You’re not lying,” he says eventually, sounding surprised about it.

“I am not,” Jaskier promises him.

“What did he do to me? I don’t know any ‘Jaskier’.”

Jaskier can tell that Geralt had been trying to say his name in a mocking way, and if he too was currently less than a decade old himself it would have worked. But instead it just comes across as incredibly adorable, and Jaskier works to smother his smile. “I believe you’ve been cursed,” Jaskier says. “Is deaging a thing? Turning adults into children? When we came in here, you were a tall, imposing, experienced witcher. And right now you’re…what? Nine? Ten?”

Geralt just shrugs. “Something like that. It doesn’t matter.”

Geralt had told Jaskier once that he didn’t know how old he was, but Jaskier had just assumed that he was old enough to have forgotten to keep track. Not that he had never known.

Geralt continues to regard Jaskier suspiciously, but eventually he must decide that Jaskier isn’t a threat – which, good, he’s definitely not – because he turns his head around, taking in the scene around them. He almost looks fidgety, like the situation is starting to get to him.

“Your horse is still in the village,” Jaskier says slowly. It’s a vague plan, but he’s hoping that having one will help settle Geralt. “I can get her for you. We need to find someone else who can undo this spell, because I don’t think that guy,” he gestures again at the corpse, “is in any condition to do it.”

Geralt’s gaze snaps back to him, but it’s less confrontational now, and he tilts his head. It’s…odd to see him so expressive, to see what he must have been like before all such tells were trained out of him. “I will come with,” he says decisively.

“Naked?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt pauses and looks down at himself, and then at the pile of far-too large clothes. As a child he’s _small_ , not yet muscled but skinny and lanky. Side by side, he’d probably only come up to about Jaskier’s chest. Geralt makes a grumpy sounding noise, shooting Jaskier once last glance before he squats down and starts rummaging through the pile.

As he rummages, Jaskier pulls off his doublet and then the chemise underneath before shrugging the doublet back on. The fabric scratches unpleasantly at his skin, rough and coarse, and he’ll have to do it up, but it’s manageable.

Geralt emerges from the pile of clothes with the dagger he keeps in his boot in one hand, which is the only thing that seems to fit his child sized body, and his medallion in the other.

“Here,” Jaskier says, offering his shirt to Geralt. It’s barely shorter than Geralt’s own, but it’s definitely narrower and less likely to slip off Geralt’s shoulders immediately, especially if he buttons it up.

Geralt looks at the shirt and then at Jaskier with an expression of vague offense.

“I know it’s still too big, but it’ll be more likely to stay on than any of yours. It should be long enough to cover you too, until we can get you some pants.”

“I don’t need your shirt,” Geralt spits, sounding annoyed.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Fine then, ride your horse naked. I’m sure it will be pleasant.”

Geralt glares at him. “Get clothes from the village,” he says.

“And how am I to explain why I need them?”

“Say you found me in the woods.”

“And I’m sure they won’t want to take you off my hands and take care of you themselves.”

“Why would they want to do that?” Geralt asks, wrinkling his nose.

It’s adorable. “People like kids, Geralt,” Jaskier says.

“They don’t,” Geralt counters quickly, too quickly, which makes Jaskier’s heart clench. “Besides, I’m not a child, I’m a witcher.” He tilts his chin up defiantly.

Jaskier really wishes that everything Geralt did was less cute. As it is, it’s very hard to be properly grumpy at him. “You’re a very argumentative child,” he tells Geralt, and unsurprisingly, it comes out warm and fond.

“Is this a surprise?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier snorts. “You don’t normally speak this much,” he says, smiling despite himself.

“Hmm,” Geralt muses, and Jaskier’s laughs.

“That’s more like it,” he says. “Come on, just put the shirt on while I get your horse and our stuff okay? I’ll make your excuses so you won’t have to interact with anyone and meet you back here. Will you stay and wait for me?” He tries to look pleading. He _is_ worried about leaving Geralt, half convinced that Geralt is about to abandon him and run off naked into the woods with just a dagger, and then where would they be?

Geralt stares at him, intense, like he’s looking for something in Jaskier’s face. Eventually though, he takes the shirt. “Do not steal my horse,” he orders. “Or my coin.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jaskier promises him.

Geralt continues to look at him, piercing.

“Will you wait?” Jaskier asks again.

Geralt nods. “I will be here,” he says.

Jaskier makes to leave, and then hesitates. Technically, Geralt had done the job, and deserves the coin for it, after all. Jaskier takes the sorcerer’s bloody cloak as proof, unable to bring himself to carry the man’s head, and heads back down to the village.

Getting Roach from the village goes relatively smoothly. The villagers recognize him from coming in with Geralt, and the stableboy doesn’t give him a hard time once he explains that Geralt was simply still recovering from the fight. The alderman is a bit harder to convince, but Jaskier offers him the cloak and the promise of quite a mess in the cottage. Jaskier has always been better at sweettalking the aldermen anyways, and he even manages to get the full, promised pay from him.

Roach eyes Jaskier suspiciously and butts him with her head, but Jaskier feeds her an apple from the stash he tries to keep on hand for just such occasions, and she allows him to take his reins and lead her back up the path to the sorcerer’s cottage.

“Stay, there’s a good girl,” Jaskier tells her, petting her neck and leaving her to feed on the grass.

He opens the door to the cottage and is immediately greeted by Geralt’s dagger pointed at his sternum.

“Woah, hello to you too, Geralt.”

“Oh,” Geralt says, pulling back. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Jaskier confirms. “Got your horse and,” he jingles the pouch in his hand, “your coin. Like I said.”

Geralt stares at him. “You returned,” he says blankly.

“I did,” Jaskier says. “And you kept your end of the bargain too.”

Geralt is dressed in Jaskier’s shirt. Even buttoned and tied at the top the neckline slips down beneath his collarbone and Geralt has taken a length of rope to use to the belt the shirt on. It comes just down to his thighs, barely, not long enough to be considered modest by any standards, but it’s far better than him being naked. His adult clothes are folded into a neat pile set next to the door, his sword sheathed and resting on top beside the wolf head medallion.

“All packed?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt nods.

“Alright let’s get this on Roach,” Jaskier says, reaching for the pile, but Geralt smacks his hand with the flat of his blade.

Jaskier yanks his hands back.

“I will carry it,” Geralt says. “They belong to me.”

“They do,” Jaskier says.

It’s quite the sight. Geralt’s armor is large and bulky, and there’s only so much folding one can do to make it more compact. Not to mention his sword, which is now taller than he is. Roach is taller than him too, and Jaskier does have to gently coax her to kneel so Geralt can repack his things on her.

Roach is clearly interested, sniffing and whiffing at Geralt. He must smell like himself, Jaskier assumes, even if he doesn’t much look like himself.

Geralt’s always been a logical packer, strategic, and it’s clearly easy for this younger version of him to work out where his older self usually put his belongings. The only thing he’s unsure about is obviously the medallion, now the one thing left in his hand.

“You don’t want to wear it?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt whips around, as if surprised to hear Jaskier’s voice. “I…I haven’t earned it yet,” he says. “I have not passed the Trial of the Medallion.” Yet he clearly seems unwilling to part with it.

“Would you like me to keep it safe for you?” Jaskier offers.

“No,” Geralt says immediately, too fast, clutching the medallion close to his chest.

Jaskier reminds himself not to be offended. Geralt has no reason to trust him after all. He doesn’t _know_ him. Eventually Geralt slides it into one of the saddle bags, looking unhappy about it but doing it nevertheless.

“All set?” Jaskier asks him.

Geralt looks at him, seemingly confused. “Yes,” he says. “Clearly.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “There’s no need to be a brat,” he says, giving Geralt a cheeky grin. “That’s my job in our relationship.”

“We have a relationship?” Geralt asks, pure shock across his face.

Jaskier has to remind himself _again_ not to be offended. He knows well enough that at first glance he and Geralt don’t seem like a match, not even as friends, and he knows that Geralt isn’t likely to have met anyone other than his fellow witchers at this point in his life. He also knows he’s too young to understand the second meaning in his question, one Jaskier himself can barely believe is true even when he falls asleep in Geralt’s arms and wakes up with them around him. “I told you we were friends,” Jaskier says, trying to keep his voice light.

“You said we were ‘traveling companions’,” Geralt corrects.

“And why would you travel with someone you don’t like, hm?”

Geralt gives him another look like he’s stupid. “Because it can be convenient. Perhaps we were merely going the same way.”

“And that’s obviously why you brought me to the sorcerer’s house with you,” Jaskier says.

Geralt frowns. “I do not understand why you were there,” he says at last.

“It was just supposed to be a chat,” Jaskier says. “Neither of us were supposed to be in any danger.”

Geralt continues to frown. “Why would you be there for a chat?” he asks.

“Because I _am_ your friend,” Jaskier says. “You might not say it, but you keep me around.”

“Your heartbeat is steady, you’re calm, not nervous,” Geralt says, tilting his head. “You don’t seem to be lying. Unless you are skilled at hiding the fact.”

“Oh, I _am_ a very skilled liar,” Jaskier assures him, winking. “But I am not lying right now.”

“I do not understand you,” Geralt says bluntly, and Jaskier laughs.

“I am often befuddling, my dear witcher,” he says.

Geralt frowns at the endearment, and Jaskier makes a mental note to try and stop those. “Here, let me help you up.”

“I don’t need your help,” Geralt says.

“Alright then, get on,” Jaskier says, coaxing Roach back into standing, just to be difficult.

Geralt continues to frown. If he were to reach up, he could get his hand around Roach’s stirrup, but obviously not his feet.

Roach stamps a little in anticipation.

“Let me help you,” Jaskier says.

“No,” Geralt says firmly, still trying to figure a way up the horse.

Jaskier has seen Geralt take standing leaps that could easily clear Roach, but that had been a fully grown, fully trained Geralt. This younger version looks unsure, something that Jaskier doesn’t usually associate with Geralt. “Don’t hurt the poor girl by clambering uselessly all over her,” he says, breaking the silence like usual.

“I wouldn’t,” Geralt says, even though Jaskier is certain he had been working out some way to leverage himself up using her saddle and stirrups.

Jaskeir gives Geralt up as a lost cause. Clearly, his stubbornness is something intrinsic, and not something he merely developed over the years. “Stay, darling Roach,” he says, patting the horse’s nose.

Being a good, obedient horse, and not a wild, stubborn witcher, Roach does as he says, standing perfectly still, swishing her tail idly, even after Jaskier drops the reins.

He comes to stand by Geralt at her side. “Got a plan?”

Geralt ignores him.

“That’s a ‘no’,” Jaskier drawls. “Luckily, I do.” Readying himself, he takes a chance and stoops, lifting Geralt up by the waist.

Geralt shrieks immediately and twists, trying to free himself. “Unhand me!” he demands.

His obvious surprise gives Jaskier enough time to stop the expected stabbing, grabbing Geralt’s fist with the dagger just before he jams it into his thigh. “Stop it,” Jaskier says, trying to sound firm even as he struggles with Geralt’s wriggling form. “Let me put you on the horse.”

“Let me go!” Geralt shrieks, growling and spitting, clearly furious. He pounds his feet against Jaskier’s kneecaps, which hurts, but Jaskier just digs his fingers into the soft skin of Geralt’s wrist and clamps his arm around him hard. He’s learned a few things from the many times _he’s_ been grabbed. For once, he has size and weight to his advantage, even if Geralt seems to be just as strong as his adult self.

Geralt snarls and throws his head back, smacking it back into Jaskier’s shoulder, Jaskier having moved his head and saved his nose just in time.

“You are ridiculous,” Jaskier accuses. “Calm down and get on the bloody horse.”

“Put me down!” Geralt shouts.

“Get on the horse.”

Geralt howls, thrashing wildly, making himself impossible to hold.

Jaskier sighs and lets go, letting him drop to the ground. Geralt falls the few feet as an uncoordinated thrashing mess, but he lands lightly, like a cat, and comes up snarling, brandishing his dagger.

It would be more effective, Jaskier thinks, if the snarl didn’t reveal that Geralt is missing one of his front teeth. Along with the fat on his cheeks and jaw, it makes Geralt look incredibly young and Jaskier mostly just wants to hold his face and pinch his cheeks. He manages to simply cross his arms and stare at Geralt, trying not to smile.

Geralt holds his position for a long time until he seems to realize that Jaskier isn’t going to try and fight him. “What the fuck what that?” he demands.

Jaskier shrugs. “I was trying to help you.”

“You _grabbed_ me.”

“How else was I to lift you?” Jaskier says, keeping his voice light.

“I did not want to be lifted!” Geralt points out, gesturing with his free arm.

“How were you going to get on the horse?”

“I will figure it out!”

“Well figure it out fast, Roach is getting impatient.”

Like the good listener that she is, Roach stamps her hooves in the dirt and tosses her head, annoyed and confused by their dallying.

“Just let me help you,” Jaskier says. “I won’t tell.”

Geralt stares blankly at him. Eventually he says, “Fine,” and crosses his arms.

“No stabbing this time,” Jaskier says.

Geralt growls but holds himself still when Jaskier lifts him high enough that he can get a leg over the horse. He feet fall short of the stirrups, which just makes Jaskier want to grab at them and tickle them, dirty and bare and vulnerable. But he resists.

“Hm, maybe you ought to ride sidesaddle for now,” he muses, looking at Geralt in his borrowed shirt. “You don’t look exactly-”

Geralt makes an angry noise and kicks Jaskier in the head.

It hurts.

“Son of a whore,” Jaskier mutters, holding his pounding head. “What was that for?”

“Do not make fun of me,” Geralt demands, his voice trying to be dark and deep and scary, even though he’s stuck with his high child tones.

“Here,” Jaskier says, still rubbing his head. He rummages in one of the bags strapped to Roach and finds his cloak, tossing it up to Geralt. “Cover yourself.”

“Hmph,” Geralt says, but he does pull it around his shoulders, tying it, letting the front folds pool in his lap. The cloak hangs down past his knees despite the saddle.

“If we get lost, it’s because you just gave me brain damage,” Jaskier tells him, taking Roach’s reins in one hand and rubbing at his throbbing head with the other.

“I wouldn’t be able to tell,” Geralt says, and Jaskier bursts into startled laugher. He’s glad, so glad, to hear Geralt relaxing into his terrible sense of humor.

He glances back at the boy as he starts leading Roach, glad to see a self-satisfied look on his face.

“Where are you taking us?” Geralt asks, not five minutes into it.

“We were working our way north along this road,” Jaskier says. “Figured I’d follow your plan, ask around, see if we can’t find ourselves a mage.” _Or Yennefer_ , his mind supplies. As much as Jaskier dislikes the witch, there’s no denying that she’s the most likely person out there with the skill to reverse whatever spell Geralt what hit with, and the one Geralt would be most comfortable seeing once he grew again. Jaskier even supposes that she’s reasonably trustworthy, at least enough that she isn’t likely to try to take advantage of a child witcher by kidnapping or killing or torturing Geralt. But it’s Geralt who always seems to run across her, and Jaskier has no idea how he manages to find her. So. North it is.

Jaskier keeps them off the road at the start, not wanting anyone from the village to see them and wonder why Geralt has suddenly lost almost half his height, but back onto it as they move further and further into the wild. Usually he would be strumming his lute, trying to annoy a conversation out of Geralt, but now his lute just hangs on his back as Geralt sits quietly atop Roach.

It’s not necessarily that unusual, except Geralt’s hair isn’t usually brown, and he’s usually wearing clothes, and he usually is leading Roach because _usually_ , his feet can reach her stirrups. But instead her reins are in Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that they’d come across a small village, or even a merchant, someone who could point them in a more concrete direction, or at least provide them proper clothes for Geralt. But the sky continues to darken, and it gets harder and harder for Jaskier to see, and he’s forced to decide that they have to make camp for the night.

“Here,” he says, clicking his tongue gently at Roach as he steps off the rough road.

She trots after him dutifully, unminding of the rougher terrain.

“Why are we leaving the road?” Geralt asks, his first words in hours.

“Gonna make camp,” Jaskier tells him. “Usually you prefer doing it away from the road. Unless, you’d rather-”

“No,” Geralt says. “That’s…not a bad plan. If we don’t go too deep we’re unlikely to find monsters, but bandits will be forced to be noisy in their approach.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Jaskier agrees. It’s almost exactly the reasoning Geralt had given him the first time he asked about their campsite.

Eventually he finds a suitable place and brings Roach to a halt. “Here let me help-” he starts, going to lift Geralt down, but Geralt simply slides easily off Roach, landing lightly on his feet, the overlong cloak pooling on the ground around him.

“I do not need your help,” he says.

Jaskier huffs at him. “Fine. Does the ground hurt your feet?”

Geralt shakes his head. “We often train barefoot,” he says.

Jaskier can’t help but find that strange, although from what he’s managed to gather from Geralt, the witcher school of teaching was to be prepared for any and all eventualities.

“Would you rather set up camp or get wood for a fire?” Jaskier asks him. Usually Geralt stomps off into the woods and comes back with an armful of firewood before Jaskier is done unpacking Roach. But he wants to let Geralt choose what to do right now.

Geralt thinks for a few seconds before saying, “I will collect the wood.”

Jaskier nods at him. “Don’t go too far,” he can’t help saying.

Geralt frowns. “I will need a sword,” he says, matter of fact.

“Your swords are too big,” Jaskier points out bluntly. “Besides, what are you going to do? Stab a tree?”

Geralt continues to frown. “It isn’t right to wander into the unknown while unarmed.”

“You have your dagger,” Jaskier says.

“It’s small,” Geralt says, almost sulkily.

“It’s a dagger. I cannot produce swords out of thin air, Geralt.”

Geralt huffs. “At the next town then,” he says with a decisive nod. “When you procure my clothing.”

Jaskier sighs. “Honestly? I doubt even in the largest city that I will be able to find a sword both small enough for your current size and sharp enough for a witcher.”

Geralt looks immensely unhappy. As an adult he usually looks grumpy, or annoyed, but as a child he’s more dramatic about it. Jaskier knows that he’s finding it much more adorable than it should be.

“Get wood,” Jaskier tells him. “I’ll try to get you something more when I can.”

“Where is _your_ sword?” Geralt asks, his expression shifting to curiosity as he peers at Jaskier, as if something other than his lute case will appear.

“I don’t have one,” Jaskier says with a shrug.

Geralt’s expression shifts again, this time to shock, and Jaskier marvels. How expressive he is at this age!

“Are you stupid?” Geralt asks bluntly.

Jaskier laughs. “Not the first to ask that, little witcher,” he says with a wink.

Geralt wrinkles his nose. It’s so cute Jaskier thinks he might do something embarrassing, like coo, or cry, or try to hug the boy.

“Traveling unarmed is unwise,” Geralt tells him, still so matter of fact.

“Is that concern for me?” Jaskier teases.

Geralt hesitates before he answers. Jaskier notices him lick his lip quickly before taking it between his teeth, highlighting the gap in them. “I do not understand,” he says. “You carry no weapons, and your shirt is thin. Your doublet is too fine to serve as armor.”

“I do have a dagger,” Jaskier says lightly. “In my boot. You gave it to me.”

“Because it is absurd to have _nothing_ ,” Geralt says, sounding frustrated. “There is any amount of trouble that could befall to you which you could do nothing against.”

“That’s almost what you said when you gave it to me,” Jaskier says, remembering. “You said, ‘Since you insist on getting yourself into trouble, you should have something to help you get out of it yourself.’”

“Why didn’t you listen?” Geralt demands.

“I did. The dagger is in my boot right now.”

“But you need more than a dagger that is difficult to access,” Geralt insists.

“I don’t,” Jaskier says.

“You _do_ ,” Geralt argues. “Traveling as you do is foolish, reckless. Especially at a witcher’s side.”

“I always feel quite safe with you, you know,” Jaskier says gently. It’s true, honest, but he doesn’t think this younger Geralt will believe him any more readily than his adult self.

But Geralt surprises him. “Do we travel together at all times?” he asks, his head tilting slightly.

Another tell that Jaskier notes and keeps in his mind. He treasures, hoards, really, these glimpses of a more open Geralt. “Not all the time, no,” Jaskier admits. “Sometimes our professions take us in different directions. But we travel together when we can.”

“What is your profession?” Geralt asks, taking Jaskier by surprise again.

Jaskier smiles at him. “Can’t you guess?” he asks, gesturing to the lute on his back.

Geralt shakes his head. “I do not know what that is,” he says, flat and honest. “I have never seen something that shape.”

That brings Jaskier up short. He’d theorized that music had not been exactly plentiful at Kaer Morhen, and that witchers, except for _his_ witcher, would have little use for bards – though he does hope that he’s started to prove the lot of them wrong. But he somehow hadn’t considered that boys old enough to undergo the trials would have no idea what instruments even looked like. He supposes that it’s not exactly necessary knowledge for Geralt’s trade, but it’s such a basic part of society. A society that witcher’s try not to participate in, of course. “It’s a lute,” he says, forcing himself to say something before the silence gets too long.

“Lute,” Geralt repeats quietly, so quietly that Jaskier thinks he probably doesn’t mean for Jaskier to overhear. There’s no recognition in his face or voice.

“Would…you like to see it?” Jaskier asks. Geralt has never shown any real interest in Jaskier’s music, beyond the occasional comment or suggestion that lets Jaskier know that he _does_ listen.

“Yes,” Geralt says, nodding his head.

Jaskier swings the case around to his front, opening it and pulling his lute out. “Here,” he says softly, holding it out for Geralt.

Geralt reaches out to take it, but stops just before he makes contact. “Is it delicate?” he asks.

Jaskier smiles at him. “Just don’t go dropping it or bashing it on anything,” he says.

“I would not,” Geralt assures him, and after a moment more, takes the lute. He holds it lightly, inspecting it, his right hand curling around the neck, and his left around the body. He turns it around a little, tilting his head again, before he rests the neck on his right arm and runs a finger softly down the strings. “You make music with this,” he says eventually.

“I do,” Jaskier says. “I’m a bard.”

“Do you sing as well?”

“Yes.”

Geralt continues holding the lute, looking at it, until he startles a little, going straight. “Here,” he says brusquely, handing it back. “I did not mean to take it for so long.”

Jaskier waves his hand and doesn’t take the lute back. “I’m right here,” he says. Then he takes a risk. “Would you like to learn how to hold it correctly?”

“I didn’t know I was doing it incorrectly,” Geralt says quietly. “I did not mean to damage it.”

“You haven’t damaged it,” Jaskier assures him. “It’s like…there’s a way you hold a sword properly right? So it doesn’t go flying out of your hand when you move. The same is true for the lute.”

“That makes sense,” Geralt murmurs, considering. Then he nods. “Yes,” he says. “Please show me.”

Jaskier beams at him. “Alright sit down, so you can rest it in your lap.”

Geralt gets down on the ground easily and smoothly, right into the dirt.

Jaskier smiles and follows him down, scooting closer so he can touch the lute Geralt is still holding awkwardly. “You’re going to hold it like this,” Jaskier says, taking the lute lightly and flipping it around, “with your left hand over the strings on the neck, right here.”

Geralt puts his hand in the correct spot.

“Your right hand is going to strum the strings, right over the circle there.”

Geralt gives a tentative strum, but the strings just kind of twang with him holding them down at the neck. He frowns.

“Here, back up on the neck,” Jaskier says. “You have to put your hands in specific places to make the right notes.” Gently, he guides Geralt’s fingers into an easy chord. The lute is actually too large for his child sized hands, and it makes Jaskier smile. “Try now.”

Geralt does, producing a strong, clear note.

“Great!” Jaskier says, grinning at him.

“It…was?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier nods. “It was! You got a clear sound, nothing muddled or hesitant. That’s good. Now here.” He rearranges Geralt’s fingers again. “And strum.”

Geralt does.

“Good!” Jaskier says again.

Geralt looks disbelieving but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he forms the first chord again and strums, alternating between the two Jaskier’s shown him.

“Perfect!” Jaskier exclaims. The lute’s untuned and the chords aren’t exactly meant for altering between, but he feels like he’s bursting with joy. “You’re a natural.”

“I do not know what I’m doing,” Geralt says.

“You’re making _music_ ,” Jaskier tells him, and he can hear his beaming smile in his own voice.

Geralt ducks his head a little, and it’s too dark to see, but Jaskier imagines that he might be blushing. He plays a few more chords before he stops. “Would you play?” he asks quietly.

“I’d be delighted too,” Jaskier says, genuine and heartfelt. Gently he takes the lute back from Geralt and starts to tune it. “Any requests?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I do not know any songs. When the older witchers return, sometimes they sing rude ones at dinner.”

Jaskier laughs. “You don’t want a rude song, then?”

Geralt shakes it head. “I would like to hear something different.”

Jaskier hums absentmindedly, thinking. All of his recent songs are about Geralt, of course, and somehow he can sense that Geralt doesn’t want to hear about himself. He picks through his brain until he remembers an old lullaby he learned at Oxenfurt. It’s slow and sweet, though a little dark, as most lullabies are, but Geralt looks enraptured, sitting across from him.

“Please play more,” he breathes when Jaskier finishes.

Jaskier plays late into the night, far past the point where a fire would be useful. Geralt shifts closer and closer with each song, until their knees are almost touching. Eventually Geralt actually settles on the ground, his head almost in Jaskier’s lap with the lute. Jaskier wonders if it’s loud for him, right next to the instrument, with his sensitive ears, and tries to play only the softest songs he knows. Eventually though, his fingers start to hurt, and he can see Geralt’s eyes starting a rhythm of long, slow blinks. “Enough for tonight,” Jaskier says quietly. “I need to sleep. I’ll play for you again tomorrow if you like.”

“You would?” Geralt asks, picking his head up.

Jaskier nods. “I like it,” he says.

“I enjoyed it too,” Geralt admits, quiet, like a secret. “Thank you, Bard Jaskier.”

Jaskier sniggers a little at the title, setting his lute in its case. “You’ve never called me that before,” he says.

“What do you I normally call you?” Geralt asks.

“Just ‘Jaskier’.”

Geralt hums a little as Jaskier rises and gets their bedrolls from Roach. He runs his hand along her neck in apology before taking off her kit. “Sorry, girl,” he murmurs.

Roach huffs at him, but still lets him lead her to a large patch of grass and tie her loosely to a tree. Jaskier gives her a carrot he’d squirreled away as an extra apology. Geralt always complains that he spoils her, but, well, he’s not here to complain.

Jaskier grabs some jerky for himself and Geralt before returning to the boy.

He’s lying on the ground again, watching Jaskier, his eyes glittering in the moonlight.

“Here,” Jaskier says, handing him the jerky. “I know it’s not much of a dinner.”

Geralt just shrugs and take it, eating contentedly as Jaskier spreads out their bedrolls.

“Do we usually sleep so close?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier pauses. He likes the closeness he has with Geralt, that he had with him as an adult and the closeness he’d just found while playing for him. They usually share, but he doesn’t think that’s exactly wise to bring up. “Yes,” he says eventually. “Easier to keep warm on cold nights.”

“It is summer,” Geralt points out.

Jaskier shrugs. “Why have multiple sleeping arrangements?”

Geralt seems to think about that, still eating his jerky.

Jaskier settles onto his bedroll, biting into his as well. “Is it alright?” he asks. “You can move if you’d like.”

Geralt shakes his head. “It is fine,” he says, settling down.

Jaskier mirrors him. “Goodnight, Geralt,” he says, restraining himself from reaching out.

It’s several moments, long enough that Jaskier’s eyes have started to close, before he hears a, “Goodnight, Jaskier,” in return.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt continue to get to get to know each other.

When Jaskier awakens the next morning, Geralt is sitting beside him, eyes fixed on him.

“Er, hello,” Jaskier says, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

Geralt doesn’t say anything, just continues to watch Jaskier with an unnerving amount of attention.

“Good morning,” Jaskier tries.

Geralt continues to stare.

“Is there something on my face?” Jaskier asks, half joking.

“No,” Geralt says. He stands up then, bedroll already packed at his side. “We should get going.”

Jaskier groans. “How long since dawn?” he asks, taking in the lightness that indicates early morning.

“I allowed you to sleep in,” Geralt tells him.

“How kind,” Jaskier drawls.

“We should not spend too long in one place,” Geralt says.

“You sure have a lot of energy for a kid,” Jaskier remarks.

Geralt huffs. “The sooner you get up, the sooner we can return me to how I was.”

“Eager?” Jaskier asks. “I don’t blame you. Being nine is often shit.”

Geralt sighs, loudly, dramatically, and it makes Jaskier smile.

“Alright, alright,” he says. “No need to get grumpy on me.” He rolls out of the bedroll and stands, stretching. “I have to piss, and then we’ll head out, okay?”

Geralt nods.

Jaskier doesn’t go far, only a few trees deep, wanting to keep Geralt within even his human range of hearing. Still, by the time he comes back, Geralt has packed their remaining things, all neatly stacked by Roach.

“Has no one ever taught you patience?” Jaskier teases.

Geralt frowns at him, all seriousness. “Being a witcher often involves long periods of waiting, listening, watching. You need patience to hunt,” he says, and it sounds awfully like something he’s been forced to memorize.

“But that patience doesn’t apply to waiting for your friend?” Jaskier asks, grinning at him as he readies Roach again, loading the gear that’s too high for Geralt to reach now.

Geralt follows him around, staring intently at Jaskier.

“Do they not teach you that it’s rude to stare at Kaer Morhen?” he asks lightly, making sure to smile at Geralt when he does.

Geralt narrows his eyes. “You called us ‘friends’ before as well,” he points out. “What does that mean?”

Jaskier pauses, fingers on a buckle. “You…you don’t know what the word ‘friend’ means?” he asks, something sickening churning in his stomach.

Geralt scoffs and glares. “I am not stupid,” he spits. “I know what the word means. I do not know what it means for…you. And me.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, relaxing slightly. He finishes the buckle before turning back to Geralt, not really sure what he wants to say. So he does what he does best, just starts talking. “Well, we spend time together, travel together. We talk, when one of us has something on our mind. You kill monsters and I write songs about it.” It’s more of a list of what they do together, he supposes, and he’s not really surprised that Geralt seems unsatisfied with the answer, still staring at Jaskier, eyes narrowed.

“I do not understand,” Geralt says flatly.

“Well, I guess, what it comes down to, is that we enjoy each other’s company.”

“Why?” Geralt prompts, still staring.

“Do you not enjoy my company now?” Jaskier teases.

Geralt’s frown grows. “I want to understand,” he says. “Witchers are meant to walk the path alone. I do not understand why you accompany me. You said it’s because we are friends. But that does not explain it.”

Jaskier tries not to sigh. He’s not annoyed, and he’s pretty sure that Geralt would take it as such. But he’s not sure of the answer. “I enjoy spending time with you,” he says eventually. “And, since you haven’t sent me away, I assume that you like spending time with me as well.” He gives Geralt a small smile. “I love watching you work, and your insights and opinions when you feel like sharing them. I respect your opinion a great deal, you know. And uou probably won’t believe this, but I do find you quite fun. And insightful and caring. You keep me safe, while we’re out here, and I hope that I help keep you safe from jeers and taunts when we’re in town. I’ve put a great deal of effort into improving your reputation you know, because I know that you’re not an unfeeling monster, and I hate seeing people treat you so. I think we make quite good partners, actually.”

Geralt continues to stare.

“Does…that help?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt shakes his head a little. “I can tell that you’re not lying,” he says. “But I find it hard to believe. What you’ve said about me.”

“It’s all the truth,” Jaskier assures him.

“Hmm,” Geralt says.

Jaskier grins at him. “Ready to go?” he asks.

Geralt sighs, looking resigned as he glances up at Roach’s high saddle. “Yes,” he says, with the air of someone about to do something extremely unpleasant.

He’s stiff when Jaskier lifts him, but he doesn’t cuss or try to stab him, so all in all Jaskier considers getting Geralt into the saddle a smooth operation.

“There,” Jaskier says, patting his ankle. “Now, we shall be off.”

Luckily, the next town isn’t too much farther off, only a few hours on, during which time Geralt and Jaskier help themselves to some bread and cheese as Geralt stares off into space, clearly thinking hard. Jaskier keeps quiet, only humming occasionally when he can’t help himself. He doesn’t want to bother Geralt, and feels uncertain about how far he can push this version of him. It’s quite boring, and slightly awkward enough that Jaskier feels relief at the sight of buildings in the distance. They reach the farms first, and then the travelers coming back to their farms after a morning in town. Jaskier makes sure to give them friendly smiles and a tip of his head, but he notices Geralt pull up the hood of his cloak.

Jaskier looks up at him and gives him a smile. “Shy?” he asks softly.

Geralt shrugs. “No,” he says. “Just…not used to humans. Well, older humans.” His eyes dart down, starting at Roach’s neck.

Jaskier pets his foot comfortingly. “I think even like this you could take any of these people,” he assures.

“I am not afraid,” Geralt scoffs. Jaskier can imagine him rolling his eyes.

“Then what?” Jaskier prompts, sensing that there’s something Geralt isn’t saying.

Geralt is quiet for a little longer before he says. “I am different now.” His voice is still quiet. “I am a witcher, human no longer.”

Jaskier isn’t really sure what to say about that. He’s still not certain how long it’s been since Geralt went through the trials that had changed his body, but he’s certain it can’t be long. “I doubt anyone would notice,” he says eventually. “It’s only your eyes that give you away after all, without your medallion and your swords. You fit in better like this than you do as an adult, anyways,” he says with a grin, tugging at his own hair.

“I do not understand,” Geralt says blankly, looking at Jaskier’s hair.

“Your hair is a different color when you’re older,” Jaskier tells him. “All white.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Geralt objects. “Hair gets _grey_ as you age.”

“Well _your_ hair is white,” Jaskier says. It’s not like he has an explanation, since Geralt’s never told him how his hair became such an otherworldly color. Jaskier had assumed it had something to do with the witcher trials, but, well, the boy’s own brown hair is proving that theory wrong.

“How old am I when you know me?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier shrugs. “You’ve never said and it’s quite rude to ask after someone’s age,” he says. “But from the way you talk about somethings…I’d guess eighty? One-hundred?”

“That’s not old enough for white hair,” Geralt says. “Not for a witcher. My hair should still be brown.”

“Nevertheless,” Jaskier says.

Geralt glares and huffs at him, crossing his arms. “You do not make sense,” he complains.

Jaskier laughs. “No one has ever accused me of being sensible, darling.”

Geralt wrinkles his nose.

Jaskier smiles, glad he’s expressive again. But even as he thinks it, a pair of girls become visible on the road, talking and giggling.

Geralt goes straight in the saddle, expression smoothing before his head drops.

“Afternoon,” Jaskier tells the girls with a smile as a wink as they pass.

The girls giggle and wave at him.

“Hello,” one of them says, before they all continue on their way.

“See? Not so bad,” Jaskier says.

Geralt remains stiff in the saddle, his shoulders curved and pulled up to his ears, his back a tense line. It makes Jaskier ache just to look at him.

“If you would feel more comfortable, you can wait on the edge of town for me.” He feels a bit uneasy even offering, wanting to keep Geralt close and in sight at all times, but, well, he also wants to make the fear on Geralt’s body ease.

Geralt nods shortly, finally taking a breath.

“Then it shall be your job to keep an eye on Roach,” Jaskier tells him.

Geralt pets the horse’s neck and nods again, relaxing minutely.

As happy he is that Geralt appears to be relaxing, Jaskier still feels unaccountably nervous at the prospect of leaving him alone. Just bit before the town Jaskier leads Roach off the road. They’re still in a lush, green part of the country so there’s a tree reasonably nearby to tie her to, and some grass for her to graze on.

“Do you have your dagger on you?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt nods and pulls it from the folds of Jaskier’s cloak.

Jaskier smiles. “I don’t know how long it will take me. It might take all day. But I’ll be back at least before it gets too dark to see, alright?”

Geralt nods. “I will be fine on my own,” he says.

“There’s food in the saddlebag if you get hungry,” Jaskier continues, taking their coin pouch.

“I will be fine,” Geralt repeats. “You do not have to worry about me.”

“That’s never stopped me before,” Jaskier tells him with a little smile.

The village is small, but Jaskier sincerely hopes that they will have some sort of supplies. He stops in at the tavern first, paying the pretty barmaid with coin and a smile for a beer and some information. She gives him a smile back and informs him that there is a tailor in the village, and though there’s no proper cobbler, that the tailor often has spare shoes or materials with which to fix them oneself on hand. She also informs him that there is no proper blacksmith, which is sure to disappoint Geralt, and nor has she ever heard of any kind of mage passing by. Jaskier thanks her for the information and a package of rations with more coin and wink this time.

He heads to the tailor, who grins when he sees him, obviously excited about Jaskier’s more decorative clothes. Jaskier is sorry to have to disappoint him when he instead asks for plain children’s clothes. When the tailor gives him an odd look, Jaskier hastily makes up a story about traveling with his nephew, who had fallen into a creek nearby and not only soaked himself but helplessly ruined his clothes as well.

“Kids, you know?” he says, and the tailor nods.

“Got three of my own,” he says. “Can’t barely keep a stitch on ‘em.”

Jaskier smiles at him and gives his thanks as the tailor manages to find him a set of simple linen underthings, a few shirts, a jacket that looks to be made of sturdy leather, and a simple pair of breeches. He even manages to find a light hooded cloak, for rain, Jaskier tells him, thinking about how Geralt has taken to hiding in the hood of his borrowed loack.

“You’re lucky my youngest just had a growth spurt,” he tells Jaskier, putting a pair of worn, but still whole, shoes atop the pile. “Think they’ll fit your nephew?”

It’s hard to eyeball, but Jaskier thinks that the shoes ought to fit Geralt’s small feet, so he takes them along with the clothes, once again thanking the man and giving him a tip as well.

Pleased with his successes, he tucks the packages under his arms and makes his way out of town, back to Geralt. It’s taken a few hours, and the sun is noticeably lower in the sky than it was when he’d left Geralt and Roach.

They haven’t moved, thankfully. Roach is grazing placidly on the nearby grass and Geralt is leaning against the tree she’s tried to, eating a hunk of bread.

“Hello,” Jaskier says, even though he knows Geralt probably heard him approach from far away.

“Hello,” Geralt returns.

“I got you clothes,” Jaskier says, offering him one of the parcels. “There’s shoes in there too, if they fit you.”

Geralt blinks at him. “You did not have to,” he says, bafflingly, frustratingly.

“Do you enjoy being mostly naked and barefoot?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt shrugs awkwardly, avoiding eye contact.

“Well, maybe I just want my chemise back,” Jaskier says with a grin. “The doublet is quite itchy by itself.” He tosses the package at Geralt anyways.

Geralt catches it one handed, his bread still in the other. He opens it and starts picking through the clothes, examining them.

“I know how you like your all black ensemble,” Jaskier says, “but I’m afraid I didn’t have much opportunity to be picky.”

Geralt’s attention snaps to him. “Do I wear all black when I am older?” he asks, surprisingly.

“Er, yeah,” Jaskier says. “I assumed it was some kind of witcher uniform, honestly. It matches the broody loner persona you like to project.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Besides the medallion, witchers do not have a uniform,” he says.

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “Well, what are you used to wearing?”

“Whatever clothes fit and are not too worn,” Geralt says with a shrug.

“Oh,” Jaskier says again. What Geralt is saying makes a great deal of sense. He’s just not used to Geralt talking about any kind of details about his life.

“There is no armor,” Geralt remarks, finishing looking through the pile of clothes.

“No,” Jaskier says. “Oddly enough, the tailor did not have a set of child sized armor available.”

Geralt frowns again. “But we are on the road,” he says. “It is dangerous.”

“We’ll do our best to stay out of trouble,” Jaskier says. “We’ve been okay so far, haven’t we?”

“It has barely been a full day,” Geralt retorts.

“I always travel without armor,” Jaskier points out.

“I have noticed,” Geralt says. “I remember what you said last night.”

Jaskier smiles at him. “I _am_ sorry I can’t get you armor or weapons,” he says. “I know having them would make you more comfortable.”

“I will be fine,” Geralt says quietly. “These are good clothes. Thank you, Jaskier.”

The thanks makes Jaskier’s heart swell. Usually Geralt simply gives him a gentler form of grunt or one of his half smiles. He can count the number of times that Geralt has properly thanked him on one hand. “You’re very welcome, Geralt.”

Geralt doesn’t even bother ducking behind the tree before he starts stripping, too young and presumably too used to living with a cohort to be ashamed of his nakedness.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and shifts, using his own body to block Geralt from view of the road.

“Here,” Geralt says when he’s finished, handing Jaskier his chemise and cloak back, both neatly folded.

Jaskier smiles and takes it from him, stripping his doublet and happily sliding the soft, light chemise on over his skin. It is much more pleasant than the rough fabric of the doublet. He leaves the laces at the top untied like usual, smiling a little when he notices that Geralt has done the same on his own shirt. It’s a little glimpse of the preferences he has as an adult, and on this smaller version of him it’s helplessly adorable.

Geralt is staring at Jaskier once again, Jaskier notices, his eyes flicking across Jaskier’s collarbone, down the exposed part of his chest.

“Yes?” Jaskier prompts.

“You do not have scars,” Geralt remarks.

“I have a few,” Jaskier says. “But you’re right, not many.” His own scars – a few from childhood mishaps, one from a friend’s overexcited dog, and a two from his travels with Geralt, both of which Geralt had sewn up and slathered salve on until they were light, barely noticeable lines on Jaskier’s hip and left shoulder – are assuredly nothing compared to the scars that usually litter Geralt’s torso.

“Usually only children have so few,” Geralt says.

Well, Jaskier is definitely learning a lot about withcers today, even if it’s all facts he’d previously assumed for himself. “I’m no warrior,” he says.

“Hm,” Geralt says, nodding. He seems slightly restless, shifting from one foot to the other. He’s left the jacket off to feel the warm breeze, and the shoes do appear to fit him. Jaskier sees his dagger tucked into his belt, more obvious on the child ensemble than it usually is against Geralt’s regular clothes and armor.

“Would you like to get going?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt nods quickly. “Was there any news of a mage?” he asks.

“None, unfortunately,” Jaskier says. “But we shall keep moving, keep trying.” He hopes desperately that they can find someone, or whatever strings of fate that keep shoving Geralt and Yennefer together start to do their thing again. “Would you like to ride? Or walk? How are the shoes?”

“The shoes are fine,” Geralt says. “I would like to walk.”

Jaskier nods.

Geralt waits, letting Jaskier take the lead, which feels strange. Jaskier puts the bundle of food and his cloak in Roach’s bag and unties her, taking her reins and leading the three of them into the forest, skirting the town for now, for Geralt’s comfort.

Geralt follows after him, keeping close enough and making enough noise that Jaskier can sense his presence, even though he’s sure that if Geralt were to really try that he could move near silently.

It’s a nice day, the sun warm ahead and the breeze light and refreshing. It makes for a pleasant walk. They’re a good ways into it before Geralt, surprisingly, breaks the silence.

“Why do you not ride?” he asks.

Jaskier looks at him. Moments like this still give him whiplash, Geralt’s innocent, logical query versus his barked order not to touch Roach. “Roach is your horse,” Jaskier says, trying not to let his disorientation make him pause for too long. “You usually ride her.”

“That is illogical,” Geralt says, surprising Jaskier yet again.

“It is?” Jaskier asks. “Should you not be riding your own horse?”

“I am a witcher,” Geralt says. “Fully grown, as you have known me, I would have far greater stamina than a human. Besides. You do not look very heavy.”

Jaskier laughs. “Sometimes you do let me ride,” he says. “When I am tired, or injured, or if it is too dark for me to walk without tripping.”

“You should have your own horse,” Geralt says.

“I’m far too flighty for that,” Jaskier says breezily. “When you travel with a troupe there isn’t often room or resources for a horse. Besides, I’m not as good a rider as you are.”

“You could train,” Geralt says.

“Then you’d be stuck with two tag-a-longs instead of just me,” Jaskier says brightly. The truth is he’s just used to the dynamic by now, used to walking. And sometimes, on long days, when he does wish for a horse, he reminds himself of the upkeep and the coin and trust involved. And the truth is, he _isn’t_ very good at riding. He rides Roach well enough, but that’s more because Roach is an exceptionally good horse, who seems to follow Geralt’s lead regarding Jaskier.

Geralt is still frowning, clearly not pleased with the answers, but he doesn’t press.

Jaskier pulls them to a stop as soon as dusk sets in, determined to have a proper fire and camp tonight.

Geralt offers to get wood and is off like a shot before Jaskier can do more than yell, “Don’t go far!” after him.

Jaskier sighs. And goes about setting up camp, laying out their bedrolls, unburdening Roach, and tying her loosely where she’ll have plenty of grass to munch. Geralt, thankfully, is quick back with an armful of wood for a fire. He piles near where Jaskier has set up their camp and looks at Jaskier expectantly, his hand out.

“What?” Jaskier asks raising an eyebrow.

“A flint,” Geralt says, like Jaskier is an idiot.

“Oh,” Jaskier says. Usually Geralt lights their fires by magic, but of course, that’s not an option for him right now. “Right. Sorry. I have one in my bag somewhere.”

Geralt sighs as Jaskier starts rummaging in his pack for the flint he uses when he travels alone.

“Don’t you sigh at me,” Jaskier says, mouth quirking. “I don’t usually need it when I travel with you after all.”

“Why-oh,” Geralt says. “I have not started learning how to use signs yet.”

“I figured,” Jaskier says, coming up with the flint, and tossing it to Geralt.

Geralt uses the flint to light the fire easy, no fuss and settles near it.

“I got us dinner back in town,” Jaskier says, pulling out the two wrapped meat pies.

Geralt’s eyes go wide as he takes his. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“Of course,” Jaskier says, unwrapping his own in his lap.

Geralt watches him, his eyes flicking between Jaskier and his own pie before he starts digging in. Jaskier watches him covertly as he eats, and he notices that Geralt eats quickly, fully, until the cloth is picked clean. Jaskier feels a bit of guilt stirring in his stomach. It’s clear that Geralt has been hungry, and that their rations hadn’t been enough for him. It makes sense, now that Jaskier thinks about it. Like all children Geralt is growing, and that takes energy, and food, and rest. Jaskier slides the last quarter of his pie over to Geralt.

“I don’t need your food,” Geralt says, eyebrow going up.

“I’m full,” Jaskier says. It’s not even a lie. He could eat more, but he’s also warm, this summer evening by the fire, the rich pie in his stomach, and Geralt has a little smile on his face as he eats the last of Jaskier’s pie.

“Would you play again tonight?” Geralt asks quietly as he finishes Jaskier’s pie.

Jaskier grins at him. “I would be delighted,” he says. He plays lighter songs, jigs and party tunes, though he tries to stay away from anything too dirty. Though when he does sing a little ditty with a veiled dick joke, Geralt makes a soft snorting sound, like he’s trying to muffle a laugh, and turns his face away from Jaskier.

Jaskier smiles, glad to know that he’s been able to make Geralt happy and content, even for just this moment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The witcher trials have aftereffects.

The third town they encounter has a local witch. No one seems to be able to tell Jaskier exactly what _type_ of witch she is, other than that they go to her with ailments and come back largely un-ailed. Excited - finally, some fucking progress - Jaskier rushes back out to the outskirts of town.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks, raising his eyebrow.

Jaskier nods. “Come with me,” he says, holding out a hand. Geralt doesn’t take it, but he does follow Jaskier into the town.

“Where are you taking me?” he asks, pulling up his hood, his eyes darting at the surrounding humans.

“This town has some kind of magic user, or so they tell me,” Jaskier says, setting off in the direction the innkeeper had pointed him.

“Oh,” Geralt says, his tone blank.

Jaskier looks at him. He had expected some sort of reaction to the news that he might be able to be fully grown again. Not a level of excitement to match his own, of course, but _something_. Instead, Geralt’s face is perfectly blank, his gaze focused on the ground. “What’s wrong?” Jaskier asks.

“I am fine,” Geralt tells him, voice still flat.

Jaskier sighs. “I know you haven’t known me long, but I’ve known you long enough to know that ‘I’m fine’ means something is bothering you.”

“I said I am fine,” Geralt snaps, his anger sudden and harsh.

“Alright then, Sir ‘Fine’,” Jaskier says, teasing.

Geralt growls.

“Talk to me,” Jaskier says, his tone gentling. Geralt might be easier to rile now, but he’s also easier to read, and Jaskier can see the stiff set of his shoulders and the way he’s almost scuffing the ground with his feet.

“No,” Geralt says curtly.

Jaskier frowns. “I can’t help if I don’t know what’s upset you so,” he says.

“I do not need your help!”

“Geralt-”

“Leave me be,” Geralt demands.

Jaskier sighs. He wants to push, to prod, but he also doesn’t want to upset Geralt unduly, so he lets the matter rest. “The innkeep said that the witch lives in a nice cottage with a garden of purple flowers near the end of town,” he says. “It’s not far.”

Geralt says nothing.

If it were a longer walk Jaskier would feel the need to cover the tense silence with humming or idle chatter. But the town isn’t large, and the row of shop fronts and merchants quickly fades into mismatched cottages, one at the end a pretty, shining white, with a thoughtfully tended bed of purple flowers by its front door. “Ah,” Jaskier says. “I suppose that would be it.” He takes a few steps forward before he notices that Geralt isn’t following him any longer, standing still in the middle of the road, staring up at the house. “Geralt?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything.

Jaskier looks around them for any obvious threats, and finding none, takes the steps needed to stand in front of Geralt. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Don’t try to get around it this time.”

Geralt doesn’t flinch or look guilty in the slightest. He just blinks, taking a deep breath through his nose. “I can feel her magic,” he says. “I do not like the feel of it. We should leave.”

He takes a step back, eyes still on the cottage.

Jaskier frowns. “What do you mean?” he asks. “Do you think she’s some kind of monster? The townspeople assured me that she’s done them no harm.”

Geralt shakes his head. “I can feel the magic,” he says again. “It is suffocating. I do not like it.”

“Suffocating?” Jaskier repeats

Geralt nods. “We should leave,” he insists. “I do not like the feeling.”

It’s the second time he’s said that, and Jaskier takes note of it. Because Geralt is someone who expresses preference so rarely, who will stoically endure many an unpleasant situation because he thinks he ought to, it seems significant.

“I have never felt something like this before,” Geralt admits. His eyes are larger than normal, especially for the afternoon light they have, and his breaths are harsh and fast.

He’s _afraid_ , Jaskier realizes, almost startled. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Geralt properly afraid of anything.

“Please, Jaskier,” Geralt says quietly, reaching out and taking Jaskier’s cuff between his fingers. “Let us leave.”

It’s the fear and the “please” that does it. Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever heard Geralt ask for anything politely, not as a child or an adult. “Alright,” he agrees. “If you don’t feel comfortable we’ll leave.” He tries to give Geralt an encouraging smile, but he’s not sure if Geralt sees or cares. He tips his hand lightly, so he can wrap his own fingers around Geralt’s hand. Geralt doesn’t snatch it back or hiss, so Jaskier squeezes it a bit and starts off back down the street. He’s still unsure about what’s unsettled Geralt so, and he dislikes it extremely. If Geralt was any other kind of child, Jaskier thinks he would be clinging, to Jaskier’s hand, or his shirt, or even up in his arms. But Geralt stays at his side, fingers wrapped loosely around Jaskier’s wrist, subtly pressing against his pulse point.

Jaskier walks briskly again, not out of excitement this time but in disquiet, and is relieved to see Roach, hale and whole, drinking placidly from a trough.

She picks her head up as they approach, whickering.

“Sorry, girl,” Jaskier says, lifting his free hand to pet her nose.

At his side, Geralt turns to Jaskier expectantly.

“You want to ride?” Jaskier checks.

Since he got his shoes Geralt has seemed to far prefer walking, but now he nods. “You as well,” he says. “It will be faster.”

Jaskier frowns at that, at Geralt’s obvious haste to put distance between them and the witch. But he nods and unties Roach before lifting Geralt up into the saddle.

It’s the easiest it’s gone yet, Geralt willing and helpful even, in his lifting. Once he’s settled, he offers a hand to Jaskier.

“So gallant,” Jaskier teases gently with a smile as he takes the hand and swings up behind Geralt on the horse.

Geralt leans back against him, more than he has to, as Jaskier reaches around him to take the reins.

A soft flick is all Roach needs to get going, trotting serenely out of town. Whatever has unsettled Geralt so much, she clearly doesn’t feel it.

“Faster,” Geralt urges quietly, once they’re out of town.

Jaskier and Roach both obey, Jaskier urging her to speed and Roach obeying near instantaneously, as though she was listening to Geralt and not Jaskier’s commands.

They ride at a steady, but quick, clip, until the sun has started to fade from afternoon into evening. Against Jaskier’s chest Geralt relaxes marginally, first his shoulders, then his breathing. Once he seems settled, Jaskier pulls Roach off the road so they can start to make camp.

Geralt is quiet, sliding to the ground and taking packs from Jaskier’s hands to arrange on the ground.

“Geralt?” Jaskier prompts gently, sorting through their food to find something for dinner. “Will you speak to me?”

Geralt doesn’t respond.

Jaskier sighs. “Please?” he tries.

It doesn’t work on Geralt as it had worked on him. Geralt simply lays out their bedrolls and then gets in his own, back to Jaskier, the line of him stiff.

“Do you not even want to eat?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt shrugs.

“Well, I’ll not have that,” Jaskier says, putting his hands on his hips dramatically. “You’re a growing boy and you need to eat.” He tries not to think about how much he sounds like a scolding mother.

Geralt ignores him.

Jaskier takes a hunk of bread throws it at his head.

It thunks off Geralt’s skull and into the dirt, but at least it gets Geralt to roll over. “What the fuck?” he asks, tone still blank.

“Got your attention, didn’t it,” Jaskier points out. He throws a wrapped napkin of rations at Geralt next. “Try catching it this time.”

Geralt scowls, but he does catch the parcel.

“Eat,” Jaskier demands, taking a parcel for himself. “The bread too.” He knows that Geralt cares very little about dirt on his food.

Geralt is still scowling as he shoves a handful of nuts into his mouth. “You are very irritating,” he says.

Jaskier swallows down the impulse to chide him for talking with his mouth full. “So I’ve been told,” he says breezily.

“By me?” Geralt asks.

“By many a folk. But yes, you as well.”

“I see it has not worked,” Geralt says.

Jaskier laughs. “It has not,” he confirms. “Oftentimes being irritating actually works.”

“How is that?”

“You’re talking, aren’t you?” Jaskier points out with a wink.

Geralt snaps his mouth shut.

Jaskier smiles at him. “Will you talk to me for real?” he asks. “I know you were…disquieted in the village today. Can you tell me what happened? I don’t want to put you in that situation again.”

“It was not your fault,” Geralt says quietly.

“I would still like to help,” Jaskier says. “I’ve told you already, I do not like seeing you distressed. If I can help, I want to.”

Geralt shrugs one shoulder awkwardly. “Could you feel it?” he asks. “The press of magic?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “No,” he says. “We’ve encountered quite a few magic users and I’ve never felt anything like you were describing.”

Geralt nods. “Before…I could not either. The mages were just like everyone else, only hooded instead of armored.” He looks at the dirt. “After they changed me…I could feel it when they were around. Pressing. And it…they…always hurt. After. There would be pressure and then there would be pain. I felt that pressure again in the village.”

Jaskier fists his hands in his breeches to avoid pulling Geralt in his lap. The boy is holding himself so stiffly, try so hard not to tremble, that Jaskier is afraid one wrong move will shatter him. “Well,” his says softly, “it’s just as well we got out of there then.”

“You…you think so?” Geralt asks, the smallest of wavers in his voice.

“I do,” Jaskier says, nodding for emphasis even though Geralt can’t see him. “There’s no need for us to deal with anyone who makes you feel that way.”

Geralt remains rigid. “It is likely illogical,” he admits, voice full of shame.

“Illogical or not, finding out is not worth putting you through that,” Jaskier says firmly.

“But if it should cause us trouble-”

“No trouble,” Jaskier assures him. “We will find someone else. Someone who’s magic feels better, perhaps. Do they not teach you to trust your instincts at Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt nods, a short jerky thing. “They do.”

“Then trust yourself. We are safe now, and that is what matters, is it not?”

Geralt nods again, more hesitant but also smoother.

“Then it is settled,” Jaskier says.

Geralt looks up at him then, looking puzzled. “Settled?” he says.

“There is no need to second guess yourself, or beat yourself up further,” Jaskier says. “Both you and I are safe, and Roach as well, of course. No one has been injured, further bespelled, pelted with fruit, or run out of town. All in all, one of our more successful days, I must tell you.”

Geralt huffs what may be a laugh through his nose.

Jaskier smiles. He lets the silence sit, since Geralt seems to be relaxing, the set of his shoulders loosening as he eats, his spine fluid once more.

“Would you like me to play?” Jaskier asks once they’re done eating.

Geralt nods eagerly and shifts closer.

Jaskier smiles at him, grabbing his lute and strumming as he tunes.

Geralt watches, attentive as always, but still relaxed.

When he’s ready, Jaskier starts to sing. Ever since meeting Geralt all of his songs have been about him, not only his new compositions, but all the ones he plays in public too, unless he needs a jig or something dirty. So he takes this opportunity to comb through his repertoire, all his studies at Oxenfurt, the things he can remember and some he can only remember snippets of. Historical ballads, children’s songs, lullabies, all sorts. Jaskier had always liked learning about music. As the night darkens he tries out an elven ballad, one he had learned in Elder, pleased to find he remembers it.

“I did not know you spoke Elder,” Geralt says quietly when he finishes, from the ground by Jaskier’s knee where he’s lain.

Jaskier smiles at him. “I wanted to learn as much as I could. There are a great many wonderful poems and songs have never been translated.”

“I have only started learning the basics,” Geralt says. “I did not understand everything you said. What is it about?”

“It’s a about the beautiful Ettariel, and the singer who loves her, and wishes to remember her forever.”

Geralt hums softly.

“Too romantic for you?” Jaskier asks.

“No,” Geralt says quietly. “It sounds…kind of nice. To be remembered like that.”

Jaskier’s heart clenches. “If I achieve anything with my life and work it will be to ensure that you are,” he says honestly.

Geralt’s face scrunches and he rolls, hiding his face in Jaskier’s knee. “You should not say things like that,” he says.

“Why not?” Jaskier asks, resisting the urge to run his fingers through the boy’s hair.

Geralt simply shakes his head.

“Too sentimental?” Jaskier guesses. “I am sorry to have made you uncomfortable, but it _is_ in my nature.”

Geralt shakes his head again. “Too nice,” he mutters.

Jaskier smiles sadly. “Ah. Getting you to believe that you deserve nice things has been a years long battle. But I shan’t give up. I can be just as stubborn you, you know.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything.

“We won’t talk any more of it,” Jaskier assures him. It’s probably best for his plan to get Geralt to accept nice things if they don’t ever speak of it.

He’s expecting Geralt to stay quiet, to brood, but instead he surprises Jaskier. “You did not write any of those songs,” he remarks.

“You’re…right,” Jaskier says. “How did you know?”

“None of them sound like you,” Geralt says simply.

It’s one of those rare moments that Jaskier finds himself taken aback, thrown. “Ah,” he says eventually.

“They were still good,” Geralt adds, quickly. As if he’s worried about Jaskier’s feelings. It’s unbearably sweet.

“I learned by playing others’ songs,” Jaskier says. “And when I started writing my own, they weren’t very good.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. “You used the past tense. That means you think your songs are good now.”

Jaskier laughs. “I thought those bad ones were good when I wrote them too,” he says, chuckling.

“Bet they’re not,” Geralt says, face still hidden, and it’s so childish, and blatant, that Jaskier happily falls for it.

“Is this your way of asking to hear one of my own songs?”

Geralts hums and shrugs.

“You are not as sneaky as you think you are,” Jaskier says, but he’s already sorting through songs he could sing. He still doesn’t want to sing anything that will make Geralt think about himself, which leaves precious few options. Though…not all of them mention Geralt by name. Settled, he starts humming, plucking the introduction for a short ballad.

_Your eyes, like stars over the road  
Your lips, like a cup of pleasure  
Today I would like to see  
My old love again  
Even through the shadow_

Geralt rolls over onto his back, his face calm, as he stares up at the stars.

_Because my heart begs like a beggar  
I wander alone at the crossroads  
And whenever I look at the sky  
I feel your cold again, like stars_

He finishes and looks down at Geralt, who has turned his face towards Jaskier. “I liked it,” he says, his voice hushed.

“I haven’t played it much,” Jaskier admits. “It’s rather new.”

“It was…nice,” Geralt says, nose scrunching as he thinks. “That’s not what I mean. I do not know anything about this.”

“You don’t have to know music to enjoy it,” Jaskier says. “You just have to listen to it.”

“I enjoy listening to you,” Geralt says. “And I enjoyed your ballad. It…made me feel…settled. Calm.”

Jaskier grins. “I’m glad,” he says.

“Was that correct?”

“There’s no ‘correct’,” Jaskier says gently. “Music makes you feel however you feel. But I wrote this one to be soothing.” He had written it right before he and Geralt had separated last winter, sad to see Geralt go to Kaer Morhen as he took himself to Oxenfurt. He’d played it a bit at the university, when the winter melancholy had set in, and it had been nice, warming to think of Geralt when it was cold outside. Easier to miss him when he had something to think of him with. He’d played it a few times since, usually on calm still nights, spent outdoors with Geralt. Geralt had never said anything, but he’d always pulled Jaskier into his bedroll after and kissed him, soft and searching, so Jaskier had figured he’d understood what Jaskier had meant with the lyrics. He doubts this younger version understands the same, but it’s still heartening to know that his intent had come through.

“Would you sing it again?” Geralt asks, his voice small, almost too quiet for Jaskier to hear.

“Of course,” Jaskier says. By the time he’s played through it a second time, Geralt’s breathing has started to deepen, and Jaskier smiles. There’s something unbearably charming about Geralt starting to fall asleep to the sound of his singing. “I need to sleep now,” he says quietly, running his hand over Geralt’s head.

Geralt nods but lies still, soaking in the touch for a few moments longer before he rises and gets into his own bedroll.

Jaskier settles down near him and falls asleep easily, quickly, lulled by Geralt’s deep even breaths, and the stars above them.

When he awakens in the middle of the night, it’s sudden and disorienting. He takes a moment to place himself; hard ground beneath him, the smell of trees and earth, the soft rustling of night creatures in the forest. The only thing missing is the steady sound of Geralt’s breathing, and that has Jaskier sitting up straight.

He remembers a second later that he’s not in bed with Geralt, because Geralt is currently a child. It’s too dark for Jaskier to really see much just by the moon and the stars, just the outline of the child next to him, harsh and stiff.

Geralt makes another sound in his sleep, something like a gasp of pain.

“Geralt?” Jaskier calls softly. He’s learned the hard way that shaking Geralt awake usually just ends in a sprained wrist.

Geralt doesn’t respond, simply makes another pained noise.

“Geralt, wake up,” Jaskier says. “It’s me, it’s Jaskier.”

“’M not asleep,” Geralt says tightly.

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “I’m sorry, I thought you were having a nightmare.”

“Witcher’s don’ have nightmares,” Geralt lies.

Jaskier doesn’t call him on the lie, instead lying back down. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Are you hurt?”

Geralt doesn’t respond.

“Geralt?” Jaskier prompts. “You’re going to have to talk to me, it’s too dark for me to properly see you.”

“Fine,” Geralt says, obviously from between clenched teeth.

“You don’t sound fine.”

“It will pass,” Geralt pants.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Jaskier asks. “Please, I do not wish to helplessly sit by as you suffer.”

Geralt makes another soft sound. “You don’t have to,” he says.

“But I _want_ to,” Jaskier insists. “What is hurting you?”

“My back,” Geralt says quietly.

“May I touch?” Jaskier asks, extending his hand, letting it hang between them.

“You will not be able to ease it,” Geralt warns.

“May I anyways?” Jaskier insists. He may not be able to take any physical pain, but he hopes that he can at least provide comfort.

Geralt is quiet for a long while before he exhales and says, “If you wish.”

Jaskiers smiles at him and shifts closer, at the very edge of his bedroll. Gently he moves his hand over Geralt’s back, letting him feel the touch before it comes. Then he places his hand on Geralt’s back next to his spine. He can feel how tense Geralt is, even through the cloak and the shirt.

“Are you too warm?” he asks.

“Witchers can regulate their temperature,” Geralt says.

Jaskier sighs. “And how long have you been a witcher for?” he asks. “They’ve taught you everything already?”

Geralt is quiet again for a long while, but he lets Jaskier run a steady hand up his side.

When Jaskier presses harder, it’s as if he can feel the muscles rippling beneath his touch. “Here?” he asks, pressing harder.

Geralt grunts a little. “Everywhere,” he admits. Then he sighs. “You are not incorrect,” he admits.

Jaskier snorts. “Very magnanimous of you.”

Geralt sighs again. “I have not…been a witcher for long. The trials…they are not long past. And there are lingering effects.”

Jaskier listens quietly, keeping up the sweep of his hand.

It’s another several moments before Geralt speaks again. “Our bodies must adapt to the mutagens, to the shapes they make of us. It can take several months before the changes are truly complete.”

Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever been this quiet in his life. But this is something rare, a witcher giving his secrets, Geralt _sharing_ , and he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

“I am progressing quickly,” Geralt tells him. “The other boys are still abed, unable to move. If they survived.”

Jaskier can’t help pressing a little harder.

“I do not know who else survived,” Geralt whispers. “They will not tell me.”

Jaskier shifts closer, into the dirt between their bedrolls, uncaring of it. He wraps himself around Geralt, both hands on his back, the boy’s face in his chest.

“It hurts, Jaskier,” Geralt admits.

“It’s alright to hurt,” Jaskier assures him.

Geralt takes a shaky breath and presses a little closer.

Jaskier holds him and focuses on slowing his breathing, hopefully into something calm for Geralt to match, his hand following the rhythm. He keeps it up long after Geralt’s breathing starts to ease, long after Geralt’s body relaxes. Jaskier doesn’t fall asleep again that night, curled around Geralt, too awake, too focused on protecting him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jaskier sings is called The Stars Above the Path and it's one of Dandelion's ballads mentioned in the books. The Polish TV series featured a version of it, which I found the lyrics for and then translated with the help of google. It's quite beautiful, you can listen to it [here](https://youtu.be/1avFxuoKdX4).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier's relationship reaches a breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of child abuse. Tags have been updated accordingly.

Dawn breaks with them still like that, Geralt’s soft breaths fanning over the skin where Jaskier’s shirt lies open. He’s warm and soft in Jaskier’s arms, his body relaxed in sleep. He looks like a normal, unburdened child, and it makes Jaskier wants to protect him as best he can. He tries to keep his breathing slow and even, keep Geralt relaxed against him as long as possible.

But, of course, not long after dawn Geralt starts to stir against him. Jaskier keeps still, keeps his breathing even, letting Geralt wake up on his own.

He does so quickly, going from relaxed to alert almost instantaneously, sitting up only seconds after. He blinks a few times and whips his head around, taking in the area.

“Good morning,” Jaskier says, deciding not to sit up and put himself in the way of Geralt’s swinging ponytail.

Geralt’s attention snaps to him. “Jaskier,” he says after a few seconds.

“That’s me,” Jaskier says, smiling. To be honest, he’s surprised that Geralt isn’t already trying to run from him.

Almost as if he had the same thought, Geralt’s eyes flick away and be slides out of the bed roll. “I will get us food to break our fast,” he says, his hand drifting to the dagger on his hip.

“Food?” Jaskier asks, sitting.

Geralt nods. “I am quite good at hunting,” he says. “Catching a rabbit will not be difficult.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says, choosing to trust him. He recognizes Geralt’s need to distance himself, and still be useful.

Geralt nods again and heads off to hunt.

Jaskier picks himself up off the ground and stretches, back sore from a night spent on the ground without even the barest padding of the bedroll beneath him. He tries to twist around and brush some of the dirt off, but he’s not sure how successful he is.

Their fire from last night is still in one piece, and not burnt to ash, so Jaskier adds some wood to it and relights it with the flint, assembling a quick spit above it for cooking the rabbit.

Geralt does return fairly quickly, a rabbit clutched dangling from his hand. The rabbit’s head has clearly been twisted around until it’s completely backwards. It’s grotesque to look at, but it’s not gory, and the dagger in Geralt’s belt is still sheathed. “Well done,” Jaskier says.

Geralt just shrugs. “Catching rabbits is not impressive,” he says.

“Well, I couldn’t do it,” Jaskier says.

Geralt stares at him. “How have you survived?” he asks flatly. “No weapons, no armor, no food. You should be dead.”

Jaskier shrugs. “There’s no reason to try to kill me,” he says. “I’m not a threat. I travel with rations, and I can forage well enough.”

“Travelling with too much food is a waste,” Geralt says. “You should learn how to hunt. I can show you how to hunt a rabbit, next time.”

Jaskier makes a face. “Don’t think I have the stomach for it, honestly. You took me hunting once. I threw up.”

Geralt shrugs. “Lots of people throw up the first time they kill something.”

“Did you?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I did not like it though,” he admits, settling next to the fire. “Animals scream when they die. And the blood…it is hot and sticky. I disliked all of it.”

It makes Jaskier’s heart hurt to hear. He’s known since the adventure in Posada, when Geralt offered himself to the elves and spared the sylvan, that Geralt doesn’t find pleasure in killing. He’s also noticed that when Geralt does hunt, he tries to use every piece of the animal possible, skin, hide, bones, as well as the meat. It’s one of the first things Jaskier noticed that really made him admire Geralt, and one of the things that he finds most frustrating about the myth of the cold, heartless witcher.

“You have taught me how to skin a rabbit,” Jaskier offers. “If you would like me to.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, clearly disbelieving. Jaskier rolls up the sleeves of chemise, and gestures for Geralt to hand the rabbit over.

Geralt does, staring, clearly intent to judge Jaskier’s skills. He sits next to him as Jaskier takes the small knife out of his pack that he keeps just for this. Geralt watches him the whole time, his lips turned down as Jaskier skins the rabbit. He’s not quite as fast or as practiced at is as Geralt, and he ends up with blood spattered up and down his forearms, and the pelt isn’t in one unbroken, perfect shape like Geralt’s usually are, but it’s decent enough.

Geralt tilts his head in something like acceptance. “Not bad,” he offers.

Jaskier laughs. “Thank you,” he says.

Geralt is quiet as they cook the rabbit and eat it, shooting Jaskier glances but then looking away as soon as he’s caught.

“What?” Jaskier asks more than once, only for Geralt to shake his head.

Jaskier decides to let him stare, let him observe, let him try to figure out whatever it is that he’s mulling over in his brain. But whatever it is, he doesn’t say, and even by the time Jaskier is packing all their gear and Geralt is stamping out the fire, he doesn’t seem to have figured it out either.

“What is it?” Jaskier says. “And don’t shrug me off this time. I know you well enough to know when something’s on your mind.

What Geralt says is, “You’re quite queer.”

Jaskier snorts. He can’t help himself. It’s just so sudden, and although he knows that Geralt means “strange”, but he also can’t help but remember him as an adult, blinking at Jaskier when he had returned from a dalliance.

_“You bed men,” Geralt had said, blunt as ever._

_“I do,” Jaskier had confirmed. “Surely it doesn’t come as a surprise?”_

_Geralt had grunted and shrugged and said, “I hadn’t known.”_

_“Well, it’s no secret,” Jaskier had said. “Does it bother you?”_

_Geralt had scoffed at him in offense and that had been that, at least until Jaskier had had enough liquid courage to stick his tongue down Geralt’s throat the first time._

But to the child version of Geralt in front of him now Jaskier just smiles and says, “I’m told that quite often, you know.”

Geralt makes a grumpy noise.

Jaskier resists the urge to ruffle his hair. It’s very difficult.

“It’s foolish to travel so,” Geralt says. “You are vulnerable.”

Jaskier frowns a little. This is something Geralt he has brought up several times, something he doesn’t seem to be able to get over. “I have my dagger,” he says again. “I’ve been getting along.”

“But I-” Geralt starts and then stops abruptly, his face scrunching.

It’s absurdly adorable, but Jaskier keeps that thought to himself. “Yes?” he prompts.

Geralt sighs. “You said you travel with me, when I am grown.”

“I do.”

“Then you travel a witcher who can protect you. But I…cannot. Not as I am now,” Geralt says awkwardly.

Jaskier smiles at him. “Like I said, I do travel on my own sometimes, and have managed not to die a horrible death yet.”

Geralt frowns. “But why?” he asks.

“Why what?”

Geralt sighs, sounding frustrated. “You said that we part sometimes. because of our work. And that you write songs about what I do. I do not see why people would find them interesting. Yet you write them. Is that why you return?”

Finally, Jaskier has a sense that they’re getting to the heart of the matter. “I return because you’re my friend,” he says, easy, simply.

Geralt’s frown deepens. He always scowls when Jaskier says it as an adult, and it’s almost strange to see the same reaction now with his smaller, darker features. “Why?” he asks again.

“Why are we friends?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt nods. “You are…not like me.”

Jaskier tilts his head back, collecting his thoughts before he speaks. His relationship with this new version of Geralt feels tenuous at best, strained, liable to snap if Jaskier says or does anything wrong. Eventually he says, “You didn’t want to be my friend, at first. I daresay you found me loud and annoying.”

“You _are_ loud,” Geralt agrees.

“Rude,” Jaskier chides, but makes sure to wink at the boy when he does. “But nevertheless, you protected me. You didn’t leave me in the dust or at the tavern like you threatened. You let me write a song about our first adventure, and what a song it was, Geralt. I must sing it for you sometime.”

“You don’t have to,” Geralt says, in tones that suggest that he very much does not want Jaskier to sing to him.

Jaskier laughs. “Embarrassed to be sung about?”

“Why would you sing about me?” Geralt asks. “I’m just a witcher. Or. I will be.”

“Ah, no, my friend, that’s where you’re wrong. You are Geralt of Rivia, the mighty White Wolf. Noble and brave and a friend even to annoying bards. You care very much, even though you don’t like to show it. I saw how people treated you, spat on you, threw rocks at you, yelled at you. I wanted to change that.”

“But _why_?” Geralt insists, looking flabbergasted. “It doesn’t matter, the things you said.”

“And why doesn’t it matter?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt stares at him blankly.

“Why should people be allowed to be cruel to you?” Jaskier asks. “To treat you poorly, try to avoid giving you your earned coin? You protect them, help them, and nobody cares in return. But I do. So. I try to help you how I can.”

Geralt is silent for so long that Jaskier pauses just to take a good look at him. His eyes are closed and his breathing his harsh, his face scrunched up like he’s trying not to cry. “Don’t say things like that!” he shouts eventually, stamping his foot in childish pique.

“Ah, even now you don’t take well to compliments,” Jaskier says softly.

“They’re lies!” Geralt spits, tone harsh. He opens his eyes to glare, and Jaskier can see that they’re glassy. “Do not lie!”

“I’m not lying,” Jaskier says softly, calmly. What he wants is to wrap Geralt up in a hug until the boy believes that he is worthy of affection, but he thinks that if he tries, Geralt might try to stab him. “I really do think highly of you, Geralt.”

Geralt makes a strangled choking kind of noise. “But _why_?” he repeats harshly.

“Because you’re a good person, Geralt.”

Geralt yells, a full-body thing, like he can’t strangle the noises any longer. “Liar!” he accuses. “I am not a person! I’m a freak! A mutant!”

“Who told you that?” Jaskier asks softly. A Geralt this young should have had to face the cruelties of society yet.

“Everybody knows! The masters don’t tell us outright but they don’t hide it either. Everyone hates us. We all know.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re right,” Jaskier tells him.

Geralt screams in frustration again. “But it’s _true_ ,” he insists. “You said it too, people hate me!”

“But _I_ don’t,” Jaskier says firmly, feeling like the conversation has gotten away from him.

Geralt yells once more. Jaskier’s never seen him so out of control. It would be scary if he wasn’t so concerned.

Geralt rushes up to him, abnormally fast, witcher fast, pushing right into Jaskier’s personal space. “Look at my eyes,” he says. “They’re _wrong_.”

“I’ve always found them quite nice,” Jaskier says placidly, still trying to project calm, hoping that Geralt will pick up on it.

He doesn’t, balling his hands into fists and raising them, stopping just short of striking Jaskier.

That he stops himself calms Jaskier completely. Geralt has only hit him once, that very first day, and that’s when Jaskier had known that anyone so opposed to their moniker couldn’t be a cold, unfeeling monster. Especially not when he was the very first to give Jaskier _coin_ for his songs.

“You can hit me, if you like,” Jaskier offers. “If you need to.”

Geralt stares at him.

“Go on,” Jaskier says, putting just enough lilt in it to be extra annoying.

It works, and Geralt yells again, lashing out.

It hurts. “Fuck,” Jaskier pants. “You’re strong.” It hadn’t felt like he’d been punched by a child, but more like he’d been punched by a fully grown blacksmith.

“Because I’m a freak!” Geralt repeats, hitting him again. “I’m _wrong_.” Another hit. “Even the mages said so.”

“The mages?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt huffs and pushes him, hard. “The ones who do the trials,” he says, grunting as he aims another punch at Jaskier, this one half-hearted and more like a solid tap. “I should still be abed, they said.” _Tap_. “Still ought to hurt too much to move.” _Tap_. “Too fast.” _Tap_. “Too much.” _Tap_. “Unstable.” _Tap_.

Jaskier’s heart hurts much more than his stomach right now. “Geralt,” he says firmly, blocking the next weak punch easily.

Geralt pants harshly, hand limp in his grip.

“Come here,” Jaskier says, finally giving into instinct and pulling Geralt into a hug, one arm around his shoulders, the other cupping the back of his head.

The boy goes limply, head on Jaskier’s chest.

“I don’t know why they would say such cruel things to you,” Jaskier says. “But do not believe them. You are good inside, Geralt. And I will be with you now, I will help you however I can, and I will be with you after.”

“Why?” Geralt says, sounding resigned to another answer he won’t believe.

“Because I want to be,” Jaskier says.

“Hm,” Geralt says, but it feels something close to acceptance.

They stay like that for a long time, until Geralt, unexpectedly, breaks the silence. “I should not have hit you,” he says quietly, but he doesn’t pull away.

Jaskier shrugs. “I told you you could.”

“I hurt you,” Geralt murmurs.

“Just bruises. I get bruises all the time from sleeping on the ground.”

“I lost control,” Geralt whispers.

“We all do, sometimes,” Jaskier says.

“What…what would you like my punishment to be?” Geralt asks, making moves like he wants to pull away.

Jaskier pulls him closer rather than think too hard on that statement. “Hm,” he says, pretending to think. “Hug me back, and we’ll call it even?”

“You want me to hug you?” Geralt says, sounding shocked.

Jaskier lets him pull back enough to look at his face, search it for honesty. “Yep,” he says. “Come back here.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, but he goes back easily into Jaskier’s chest, his arms coming up to wrap around him.

Jaskier holds him until Geralt starts to squirm, at which point he lets him go.

Geralt pulls back, still looking wrong footed.

“Shall we walk a bit?” Jaskier offers. He’s not quite sure what to do, and Geralt looks both miserable and like he’s retreating inwards.

Geralt nods. Jaskier takes Roach’s reins in hand and gestures for Geralt to lead them, which he does, looking back over his shoulder every once in a while, as if double-checking visually to make sure Jaskier is following him.

They don’t make it very far that day, before the sun starts to set and Jaskier calls for them to stop, making the same excuses about his human stamina that he’s made the past few days. Geralt flits around as they build camp together, quick and efficient at everything, until he’s settling on the ground next to the fire.

The walk seems to have done Geralt some good, even though Jaskier can tell that he’s still embarrassed and upset about his earlier outburst. He’s not sure what to say to him though, and any attempts at conversation are met with Geralt’s quiet one word answers. But still, Geralt keeps looking over at Jaskier, always looking back away at the ground once he’s caught at it, just like he had early in the day.

The tension is unbearable.

“Geralt, if you’re waiting to say something or do something, I don’t know what it is,” Jaskier admits.

Geralt stiffens. “I am fine,” he says.

Jaskier gives him a small smile. “But something is bothering you anyways.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Witchers are unbothered,” he says, and it sounds rote, practiced.

Jaskier sighs. He can feel his own frustration building, and he doesn’t want to take it out on Geralt. “But you _are_ bothered about something. Something about me. You keep looking at me. You have been all day. Do you still have questions? About what we were talking about earlier?”

Geralt frowns, probably at having been caught with a tell. “Would you tell me what my punishment will be?” he asks in a sudden rush of words. “I do not know what to do.”

Jaskier feels his heart clenching. He hadn’t even considered punishing Geralt, hadn’t even though of there being a need for it. Perhaps he should have expected this though. He still doesn’t know much concretely about how Geralt was raised, but he has his suspicions. “There’s no punishment,” he says. “I meant what I said before.”

“The hug?” Geralt looks confused. “But that was not a punishment.”

Jaskier tilts his head. “Okay, tell me this,” he says softly. “Why should you be punished?”

“I lost control _and_ I hurt you,” Geralt says, still looking confused. “I should be beyond such things. I am not a child.”

It’s very hard not to cry or rush across and pull Geralt into his lap. “You are though,” he says gently.

“Not anymore,” Geralt says, heartbreakingly firmly. “Boys do not survive the Grasses.” He tilts his chin up defiantly, and he looks so tragically young that it almost hurts to look at him.

“You are incredible, and tough, and smart,” Jaskier agrees. “But you are still young. And besides, even adults make mistakes, lose their tempers.”

Geralt is quiet, looking at the ground. “I’m supposed to be _better_ ,” he says, harsh in what Jaskier recognizes as anger at himself.

“It sounds to me like you understand what you did,” Jaskier says slowly, carefully. “And that you know not to do it again. So what would be the point of punishing you?”

Geralt looks at him like Jaskier’s gone mad. “I wronged you,” he says. “You deserve my penance.” He hangs his head.

“Come here,” Jaskier says softly.

Geralt rises smoothly and obeys, settling on the ground across from Jaskier. He looks at him expectantly, but Jaskier finds himself stuck. He had just wanted Geralt close, but. Now he has Geralt in front of him, and he doeesn’t know what to do with the boy.

Geralt tilts his head. “What would you like?” he asks. “My belt is still with the other armor, if you were looking for a substitute for a whip.”

Jaskier grows cold with horror, feeling paralyzed.

“Or…would you like me to do it myself?” Geralt offers. “How many lashes?”

“No, please, don’t,” Jaskier manages to croak.

“Then what?” Geralt asks. “You could strike me yourself.”

“Never,” Jaskier whispers harshly. “Please, don’t say such things.”

Geralt frowns. “I have upset you again,” he observes quietly. “I did not mean…Just tell me what to do.”

Jaskier feels miserable. Upset because Geralt is upset, and Jaskier is only making this worse, not better. “I don’t want you to hurt,” Jaskier tells him. “I don’t need your penance, Geralt, I’m not angry with you.”

“You are distressed,” Geralt says again. His hand raises and hovers between them, just over Jaskier’s chest. “I can hear it in your heart. In your breathing.”

“I’m upset that you’ve been hurt so,” Jaskier says. It’s looking terribly likely that he’ll start to cry, and he doesn’t want that to send Geralt running.

“I have not been hurt,” Geralt says.

“You cry out in pain at night,” Jaskier says, it bursting forth before he can think about it.

Geralt flinches.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Jaskier says. “I’m usually much better with words than this, I promise. I only want to help you, Geralt. I don’t know how.”

“I…” Geralt pauses. “I don’t know how to be helped,” he says eventually.

“Perhaps we can try together?” Jaskier suggests.

Geralt nods.

Jaskier takes several harsh, steadying breaths. “I’ll be alright,” he assures Geralt. “I’m sorry I’m so emotional, but well, only human, you know, and a bard at that.” He tries to find a smile for Geralt.

“Would…would you like another hug?” Geralt offers, something like a blush blooming on his cheeks in the dim firelight.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Jaskier says around a startled little laugh.

Geralt nods once, determinedly, and then he’s in Jaskier’s arms, his own wrapping around Jaskier without hesitance this time.

Jaskier knows he can hear the pounding of the heart beneath his head, but he wraps his arm around Geralt’s skinny shoulders and holds him close. For someone with presumably little experience, Geralt as it turns out, is quite good at bear hugs.

Jaskier holds him as the twilight fades and night comes to life around them. He holds him until his stomach gives an unhappy grumble.

Geralt startles a little at the noise and Jaskier chuckles.

“Looks like I forgot dinner,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt offers.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Jaskier assures him. “I know we just have rations, but how about we eat a bit and then I’ll play some more for you?”

Geralt nods in agreement. “Just…none of the ones about me. Please.”

Jaskier grins. “Not today, but one day, Geralt. One day you’ll appreciate it.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and Jaskier laughs.

When Jaskier wakes the next morning, it’s to Geralt sitting on the bedroll beside him, staring.

“Oh, good morning,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Have you been up long?”

Geralt shrugs.

“You could have woken me,” Jaskier points out.

Geralt shrugs again. “I went to find some food,” he says. “Here.”

Jaskier blinks when Geralt holds out an apple to him. It’s…not at all how he expected to be woken. “Thank you,” he says, sitting up and taking the apple.

Geralt continues to stare at him.

Jaskier is used to Geralt staring intensely while saying nothing though, and bites into the apple.

When he does, he sees Geralt’s face flicker into something like satisfaction.

Jaskier bites down his own smile and keeps eating.

When he’s done Geralt produces a jar from a pile of things at his side that Jaskier has just noticed. In the pile he sees a few more apples, some plants, and Geralt’s dagger. He holds the jar to his chest and continues looking at Jaskier.

“It’s salve,” Geralt says quietly. “For injuries. I thought you might have use for it after…what I did yesterday.”

Jaskier smiles at him. “It doesn’t hurt,” he says. It’s only a bit of a lie. He’s still aching, and he can feel bruises underneath his shirt, but it’s nothing serious.

“Mm,” Geralt says, like he’s unsure if Jaskier is telling the truth.

“You can see, and then tell me if you think I need the salve,” Jaskier offers.

“Alright,” Geralt agrees.

Jaskier pulls up his shirt and almost winces at the colorful painting his stomach has become.

Geralt gasps quietly and straightens up, eyes large in his face. “I am sorry,” he says, taking his lip between his teeth.

“It looks much worse than it feels,” Jaskier assures him. “See?” he pokes at himself a few times, managing not to flinch or wince at the aches it brings.

Geralt looks utterly unconvinced and still upset.

“I think you were right about the salve,” Jaskier tells him. “You should probably put it on, to help with the bruising. It is quite ugly.”

Geralt frowns. “You want me to put it on?”

“I trust you,” Jaskier says.

Geralt stares again, obviously thinking, and Jaskier doesn’t think his ploy was clever enough to totally go over Geralt’s head. But he doesn’t want the boy to be afraid of touching him, or upset at his own strength, not when Jaskier knows how Geralt tortures himself over it, even as an adult.

Geralt doesn’t say anything, but he eventually does do as Jaskier asks, putting the pot in the small space between them and coating his fingers in it lightly.

His touch is light, and the salve is cool, but Jaskier tries to hold himself still as Geralt smears it on. He can’t help squirming a little bit though as Geralt trails his fingers over his belly button.

“Did I hurt you?” Geralt asks, pulling back.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Not at all. Just ticklish.”

“Oh,” Geralt says. He hesitates for a moment longer but eventually continues, quiet and efficient.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says when he’s done.

Geralt shakes his head. “You don’t have to…it was…it was my fault. That you needed it. So.”

He’s so charmingly awkward that Jaskier has to grin at him. “Where are your manners, Geralt? The proper response is ‘you’re welcome’.”

Geralt huffs at him.

Jaskier laughs brightly. “Shall we get going?” he asks.

Geralt nods and stands smoothly, offering Jaskier a hand up.

Jaskier takes it, his smile growing. “I packed everything for you already,” Geralt says. “Except the bedrolls.”

Jaskier doesn’t thank him again, sure that it would only make him more awkward. “Then I’ll pack those up, and why don’t you have one of those apples for yourself, hm?”

“I don’t need it,” Geralt says automatically.

“Did you eat earlier?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt shakes his head.

“Then eat,” Jaskier tells him. “It will please me.”

Geralt blinks for a second, before he scowls. “That’s manipulation,” he accuses.

Jaskier laughs again. “Maybe it is. But you should still eat.”

“Fine,” Geralt says, rolling his eyes and taking an aggressive bite out of the apple.

Jaskier grins at him. “So you _can_ listen,” Jaskier says.

Geralt huffs at him, but when Jaskier sneaks a look at him as he makes sure everything is secure there’s a small smile on his face before he takes another bite of the apple.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt get to know each other better.

Things get a little easier after that. Geralt starts to open up more, starts to ask questions without waiting for Jaskier to prompt him. He starts to make observations, about their surroundings, about Jaskier. He seems to have plenty of energy, often running ahead of Jaskier and Roach, scaling trees when they’re in wooded areas, hopping between them.

Watching it gives Jaskier a heart attack every single time, even though Geralt has yet to fall or even stumble.

“Just because you’re a witcher doesn’t mean you’re impervious to breaking your damn neck!” Jaskier shouts up at him.

Geralt laughs and does a little twirl on the large branch he’s standing on. “You sound like Vesemir,” he says. Then deepening his voice in an imitation, “‘Get down from there, Geralt, stop acting like a damn cat, you’re a wolf. Don’t bother crying when you break your bones like a fool.’”

Jaskier snorts. “Maybe you should listen to this Vesemir more,” he says. “He sounds sensible.” That’s another thing Geralt has started doing. He’s started dropping little things about his life, a life Jaskier’s heard him speak only briefly of. Of Kaer Morhen and the people there, what life as a witcher trainee is like. Vesemir is someone Geralt’s mentioned a few times, an authority figure of some kind, Jaskier’s figured.

“I _do_ listen,” Geralt says petulantly, even as he swings himself up onto another branch. “Vesemir says I don’t but I _do_.”

“Do you now?”

Geralt nods.

“And what else does Vesemir tell you to do?”

“Lots of things,” Geralt says, sitting and swinging his feet. “I always do all the chores he assigns me. And the bookwork and the drills. I am fastest, strongest, best with a sword, in my group. I just get bored sometimes. It’s not _my_ fault the other boys don’t work as quickly as I do. And it’s not my fault that some of the other Masters underestimate me and get caught in my traps.”

“Traps?” Jaskier asks, trying not to smile.

Geralt grins, flashing the gap in his teeth. “They should have known the dye bucket was on the door.”

Jaskier does snort at that. “What color was it?” he asks.

“There were three,” Geralt says, his eyes glinting and his grin growing. It’s the first whole, open smile Jaskier has ever seen from him, and he tries to burn it into his mind, the happy lines of Geralt’s face, the slight flush on his cheeks, the _dimples_. “Red, green, and purple. I stole them from the alchemists.”

“So you’re a great deal of trouble,” Jaskier says, putting a hand on his hip. But he can’t stop his own grin.

Geralt shrugs, still smiling and swinging his feet. “Witchers never take a boy seriously until he has passed the first trial,” he says. “Only Vesemir ever really notices me. Though…that’s not true anymore I suppose…” His mouth turns down at the thought.

“Now that you’ve passed the trials?” Jaskier asks.

“Just the first one,” Geralt says, climbing down the tree, much to Jaskier’s relief. “But they have taken an interest in me now. Because I have been healing so quickly.”

“You certainly have lots of energy,” Jaskier says.

Geralt shrugs. “They have started me on a training regimen once more. I am used to the exertion.”

Jaskier hums thoughtfully. “Is that something I could do for you? How do you usually train?”

“With live steel,” Geralt says. “You do not have any.”

It’s true, and Jaskier doesn’t think he could bring himself to go at Geralt with even his dagger, even though he’s quite confident Geralt could still take him. “You must do other kinds of training,” he says instead.

“I have been using the trees for agility,” Geralt says. He cocks his head at Jaskier. “Do you know fisticuffs?” he asks.

“Only as far as tavern brawls,” Jaskier admits. “Is that something we could do together?”

Geralt takes his lip in his teeth, his thinking tell, Jaskier has come to realize. “Perhaps,” he says eventually. “I would have to see how good you are.”

Jaskier is not very good, they find out later that night, when Geralt insists on a post-dinner spar.

Once Jaskier hits the dirt for the third time, Geralt simply sighs and he helps him up. “You are not very good at fighting,” he says.

“Heh,” Jaskier pants, because he’s _exhausted_. “Never said I was.”

“You do not even have the correct stance,” Geralt says, sounding pained.

“Is this not it?” Jaskier asks, settling into the stance Geralt as an adult had taught him.

“That is a purely defensive stance,” Geralt says. “It is good for ducking and running away.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says. Once he had proved useless at swordplay and fist fights Geralt had given him a pained look and taught him to duck and weave and dodge his way to safety, either away from the fight or to Geralt himself. “That is what I’m most skilled at,” he admits.

Geralt still looks like he’s never spoken to anyone so purposefully dense. It’s an expression Jaskier recognizes easily from his older self. “We will try again a different day,” he says determinedly. “I will show you how to fight properly.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says, resigning himself to seeing Geralt’s dramatically pout at his failure every time.

It becomes somewhat of a nighttime routine. After they eat Geralt will coax Jaskier into a spar. He starts by teaching him the correct way to stand, which Jaskier can do, but Geralt is wholly disappointed at Jaskier’s speed and flexibility once they start moving.

“Why didn’t you _move_?” he asks, his weight on Jaskier’s chest, one arm pressed lightly against his throat.

“I tried,” Jaskier pants. “But I’m a human, and I’m not as young as you.”

Geralt huffs. “You are making excuses.”

“Am not,” Jaskier protests, knowing it sounds childish. “All true. You’re faster and stronger. I can’t move like you do.”

Geralt rolls off of him, landing beside Jaskier on his knees and peering down at him, judging.

Jaskier smiles at him, digging the hand on the opposite side into the dirt. Then he throws it in Geralt’s face.

“The fuck?” Geralt shrieks, surprised and distracted, trying to blink the dirt out of his eyes.

Jaskier takes the opportunity to slam into him, letting his heavier, bigger body do the work and slam Geralt flat on his back.

Geralt lets out a grunt when he hits the ground and Jaskier rests his weight on his hands, wrapping them around Geralt’s forearms, pinning Geralt’s legs between his own longer ones.

“Gotcha,” he says.

“You cheated!” Geralt shouts, trying to glare even as he tosses his head and blinks, still trying to get the dirt out.

“Never said I fight fair,” Jaskier says. “You taught me that.”

“If you are _dying_ ,” Geralt says, sounding exasperated, “then you use anything to keep yourself alive. But this was a spar.”

“You’ve never fought dirty in a spar before?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt growls, proving him right.

“I need some kind of advantage over you,” Jaskier says.

“You have height and weight,” Geralt points out.

Jaskier gasps in mock offense. “Geralt, are you calling me fat? How rude of you.”

Geralt sighs. “You are very stupid,” he says. “Let me up now.”

Jaskier does, grinning again, unable to resist messing up Geralt’s hair as he rolls off the boy.

Geralt makes a grumpy noise as he bats his hands away and with a shake of his head gets enough dirt out of his eyes to properly glare.

Jaskier grins at him.

Geralt smirks a little and rocks up onto the balls of his feet, and in the next second he’s bowling over Jaskier, his leap taking him a little too far, the two of them tumbling over each other, as Geralt fists a hand in Jaskier’s shirt and pulls him with him.

Jaskier squawks and tries to free himself, disoriented by the impromptu somersault, unsure of where either his or Geralt’s limbs are. He flails a hand at the wrist that he assumes is attached to the fingers scrabbling at his shoulder. He tries to yank once he finds it, but all his gets is Geralt’s foot in his gut.

“Fuck,” he gasps, trying to catch the foot with his spare hand. But Geralt is too fast, and the next thing Jaskier knows is that there’s a knee on his neck, nowhere near enough weight to even affect his breathing, much less actually hurt him or snap it. Jaskier tries to dig his fingers into the underside of Geralt’s kneecap, hoping he’s ticklish as a child, and gets a foot into the joint of his armpit for his trouble.

“I win,” Geralt declares, sitting on the left side of Jaskier’s chest, one knee on Jaskier’s left elbow, the other just atop his throat, his foot digging into Jaskier’s right armpit enough to be painful if he tries to move.

Jaskier huffs at him.

“Yield,” Geralt demands, his grin sharp now, even with his charming gap, and the hint of his dimples again.

“Fine, fine,” Jaskier sighs. “I yield.”

Geralt grins bigger. “If you can fight dirty I can too,” he says.

“Fair,” Jaskier allows, poking him in the shoulder. They’re both covered in dirt, they’ll have to find a stream to wash off in tomorrow, when there’s light once more.

Geralt looks particularly pleased with himself. “I win, so you have to do something I say.”

“Yes, my lord,” Jaskier drawls.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Have you ever met a lord?” he asks.

“Yes,” Jaskier says. “They’re not very special.”

Geralt makes a kind of snorting kind of laugh that Jaskier finds hopelessly endearing. “I do not think I will like them very much.”

“You don’t,” Jaskier confirms.

Geralt smirks. “I do not know anyone other than witchers,” he says quietly. “I do not know what they are like in truth.”

“Lords and Barons and all them are exactly as annoying and as pompous as you think they are,” Jaskier assures him.

Geralt laughs. “Have you met lots of lords?”

“A fair few,” Jaskier says. “Always found them annoyingly pompous.”

Geralt smiles a little and pokes at Jaskier’s shoulder. “ _You_ are quite pompous, oftentimes,” he says.

“I was raised among them,” Jaskier sighs dramatically. “Perhaps it is catching.”

Geralt shifts up onto his knees and comes closer. “Are you a lord?” he asks, his voice high and surprised.

“A viscount, technically,” Jaskier says. “It’s an empty title, though.”

Geralt stares. “Why are you here?” he asks. “Do you not have an estate?”

“I’m here because I want to be,” Jaskier tells him. “You are much more interesting than sitting at my family’s estate, being surrounded by annoying lords.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. “You do not dislike it? The dirt and the food and the traveling?”

“It’s not always fun,” Jaskier admits. “And sometimes I must sleep in a bed. But I do prefer your company.”

Geralt’s face scrunches. “That does not make sense,” he says.

“Does it not?”

Geralt frowns. “I have met many witchers. They are all rude.”

Jaskier laughs.

Geralt shoves at him. “I am being serious,” he complains. “The witchers are not fun. They are curt and rough and rude. They do not play. You are…nice. Comforting. I do not understand why anyone would choose this life.”

Jaskier gives him a small, side, smile. “Come here,” he says gently, lifting an arm.

Geralt continues to frown, but he does shift closer, until he’s pressed against Jaskier’s side. He looks baffled about it.

“Alright?” Jaskier asks, dropping an arm across Geralt’s shoulders.

Geralt shrugs but doesn’t move away.

“You can move if you’d like,” Jaskier says quietly. He waits a few beats, but Geralt remains pressed against him. He smiles to himself. “I am here because I enjoy being in your company, Geralt. You’re my friend, and I enjoy spending time with you. You, Geralt, are fun and exciting and incredibly noble. You’re even funny, when you want to be. I will tell you as many times as you need to hear it to believe me.”

Geralt makes a soft noise, but presses harder into Jaskier’s side.

“And you’re good at fighting,” Jaskier teases.

Geralt huffs. “You are just unskilled,” he says.

Jaskier laughs, and digs his fingers into Geralt’s ribs.

Geralt squirms.

Jaskier lets him go, smiling, even as Geralt keeps his head ducked as he walks the short distance back to the camp. Jaskier leaves him to his silence, humming idly as he readies himself for bed. Geralt keeps his eyes down on the ground as he slides into his own bedroll, setting it slightly apart from Jaskier’s.

When Geralt wakes up gasping for breath, struggling with his invisible nightly demons, Jaskier gets up and drags his own bedroll closer so he can drape his arm around Geralt and hush him gently.

Geralt is stiff accepting the comfort, but he makes no move to shift or push Jaskier away, even after he settles. The acceptance comes a little more each night, and Jaskier is glad that Geralt is beginning to let himself be comforted.

Jaskier always tries to stay awake long enough for Geralt to fall back asleep, but he doesn’t always manage it. Some nights he’s sure that Geralt _doesn’t_ ever fall back asleep, just stays still until the sun comes up. Tonight though, Geralt’s breathing does even out and slow into the rhythms of sleep against Jaskier. Geralt almost always rises first, however, and in the morning he is awake, sitting calmly next to Jaskier.

“Do you watch me while I sleep?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “I am practicing meditation,” he says primly.

“Ah, yes,” Jaskier drawls stretching. “Urgh,” he says, catching a whiff of himself. “Baths today, definitely.”

“In…a bathhouse?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier shakes his head. “A river will do. Assuming there’s one near. Ought to be, with this amount of vegetation.”

Geralt nods. “There is one that way,” he says, pointing to his left. “I could hear it yesterday. Only just.”

“Well, lead the way then,” Jaskier says, standing.

Geralt looks around their camp before looking at Jaskier and scrunching his face.

“Who’s going to come steal it?” Jaskier asks.

“Still,” Geralt says. “We shouldn’t leave a mess.”

Jaskier smiles at him. “Alright,” he agrees. “We’ll pack up then.”

Over the past few days of traveling they’ve come to a sort of rhythm about it, and Roach is loaded and trotting behind them as Geralt leads them through the forest until the come across a large stream. It’s not too deep, but the water looks reasonably clear.

Jaskier leads Roach to the edge so she can drink while they bathe. Geralt strips down quickly and efficiently, leaving his clothes in a pile on the bank, so different from the neat piles he always makes as an adult. The childishness makes Jaskier smile as he strips as well.

“ _Shit_ , that’s cold,” he hisses when he steps in. “You could have warned me, Geralt.”

Geralt is biting his lip. “Hmph,” he says. “We cannot do anything about it.”

Jaskier sighs and jumps in place a few times, trying to warm himself, sending waves out.

Geralt frowns at him, clearly judging.

“What?” Jaskier says. “I’m cold.”

Geralt rolls his eyes but stoops down to scoop up water in his hands and start pouring it over himself. Jaskier keeps one eye on him as he soaps himself and rinses himself off. Geralt is quicker than Jaskier, smaller and less attentive and Jaskier pauses in his own bathing to wave Geralt over.

“What?” Geralt asks, wading through the water towards Jaskier.

“Let me do your hair,” Jaskier says.

“My hair is fine,” Geralt protests, pulling his ponytail over his shoulder to look at it. It’s damp from his splashing, but far from clean or washed.

“It’s full of dirt,” Jaskier says.

“It is only hair,” Geralt grumbles.

“Just let me,” Jaskier says, trying not to smile at Geralt’s pout.

Geralt crosses his arms over himself but he does turn around and offer Jaskier his neck. It’s a vulnerable position, naked with someone at your back, and Jaskier appreciates it. He tries to be as gentle as possible as he takes Geralt’s ponytail in his hand and works out the leather tie. The hair is knotted in the shape of it and Jaskier clicks his tongue.

“Just fine you say. Geralt, this is a knotted mess.”

Geralt huffs at him. “It stays out of my face,” he says. “That’s all it needs to do, or Vesemir will cut it.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Jaskier says. “I quite like your hair, and I think you do too.”

Geralt shrugs a little. “Vesemir gives bad haircuts,” he mumbles. “I’d rather it long.”

Jaskier laughs as he lathers his hands in soap before working it into the tangles of Geralt’s hair. “You keep it long as an adult, as well,” he says idly, hoping to distract from the tug of his fingers through the knots. “So I’d assumed it was a personal preference.”

“I’m used to it,” Geralt says quietly.

“You’re allowed to like things,” Jaskier reminds him. “But it’s always surprised me how little you take care of it. You could have such long, luxurious hair if only you took time to care for it.”

“Taking care of my hair like that would be a waste of time,” Geralt says.

“Yet you spend plenty of time just staring into fires,” Jaskier says.

“I would never stare into a fire,” Geralt retorts. “It ruins your night vision.”

“You do sit there at night and just stare,” Jaskier says. “Lost in thought, I’ve always assumed.”

“And you suggest I use such time to take care of my hair?”

“I suggest you take time for your hair when you’re washing,” Jaskier corrects. “Like now.”

“We are exposing ourselves for longer than we need to,” Geralt says. “That can be dangerous.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to hear anyone coming with plenty of time,” Jaskier says.

“It is a risk,” Geralt repeats.

“Isn’t everything a bit of a risk, if you think about it?” Jaskier says cheekily.

Geralt surprises him by laughing. “I said that once,” he says. “To Vesemir.”

Jaskier laughs as well. “And what did he say?” he asks.

“That some risks are necessary, but others are frivolous. That a witcher knows which risks to take, and how to be smart about taking them.” Geralt sounds utterly bored as he repeats it.

Jaskier laughs. “I know that you’re taught that taking care of yourself is a waste, but I disagree. I think it’s important.”

“It’s important to keep oneself fast and strong,” Geralt says. “This however, is…pampering.”

“I think it’s important to be pampered every once in a while,” Jaskier says. “Especially if you have someone who likes pampering you. As I do.”

“Why do you?” Geralt asks. “I am not…witchers are not taught how to pamper.”

“I don’t do it for return favors,” Jaskier says gently, running his fingers through the now untangled fall of Geralt’s hair. “I do it because I care about you, and I want you to know it, and I want to express it.”

“Hm,” Geralt says.

“Now close your eyes and tilt your head back,” Jaskier says, crouching to cup water in his hands and pour it over Geralt’s head.

Geralt stays still, eyes closed and head back as asked.

Jaskier pours the water over his head, collecting more so he can wet it properly. Then he lathers the soap again and run his hands through Geralt’s hair, working the dirt out. Geralt lets him, tilting his head where Jaskier’s hands guide him.

“Good,” Jaskier says quietly.

Geralt blows air out through his nose in what Jaskier assumes is protest but remains still. Jaskier smiles. Geralt is still accepting Jaskier’s care, which is a good step forward.

“Your hair straightens as it grows as well,” Jaskier continues. “I was surprised to find it so curly.”

“Huh,” Geralt says. “That is…odd.”

“I always assumed that your hair changed color because of your mutations,” Jaskier admits. “But I suppose I was wrong.”

“Mutations don’t change our hair,” Geralt says. Then he says, “Oh,” and goes stiff.

“Are you alright? Did I tug too hard?” Jaskier asks, even though he’d only been lightly finger combing Geralt’s hair.

“I am fine,” Geralt says.

Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, Geralt says, “I am merely thinking.”

“What about?” Jaskier prompts.

“It is not something I am sure about,” Geralt says.

“About your hair?”

“Yes.”

“You have a theory about why and when it changes?”

“Yes.”

“Would you care to share with me?”

“No.”

Jaskier snorts. It’s blunt, but honest. “Alright fine, I won’t push. _This time_. Now, how would you like your hair done?”

Geralt shrugs again. “As long as it is out of my face.”

“Ah, so you wouldn’t mind if I braided your hair like the women of Toussaint have it? Piled high atop your head?”

Geralt huffs.

“Don’t worry, I don’t have the supplies for that anyways,” Jaskier says. “Not many options with just one leather tie.”

“I do not need more,” Geralt says. “That’s why I do not have more.”

Jaskier combs the hair out of Geralt’s face and off his forehead, pulling the top layer back to the back of his head. He’s a bit torn between doing a braid or Geralt’s adult style. He decides to do both, taking section from Geralt’s temple and braiding it back along the curve of his head. He pinches the end between his fingers and braids the other side until they meet in the middle and ties it off. “There,” he says quietly, still combing through the remaining hair. “Feel alright?”

Geralt dips his heads and shakes it, rolling his neck and letting his hair fall over and around. When he returns his head back to resting, the braids have stayed. “It is good,” Geralt declares.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, resisting the urge to pet his head. “This is how you wear it when you’re older,” he adds.

“Hm,” Geralt says. “With it down?”

“Yes. I assumed you liked the way it falls over your shoulders. The drama it provides.”

“Why would I care about that?” Geralt asks, but Jaskier notices him move his head, swishing his hair over his shoulders.

“Well, perhaps I’m wrong,” Jaskier allows.

Geralt tilts his head so Jaskier can see his raised eyebrow.

Jaskier grins cheekily at him.

“You should finish washing,” Geralt says, stepping away. “I will tend to Roach.”

Jaskier nods. The poor girl probably does need some through attention and brushing. They don’t say anymore, Geralt speaking lowly to Roach as he brushes her down, but Jaskier keeps catching him toss his head, and finger the ends of his hair.

When Jaskier is washed, dried, and dressed, he starts unpacking rations for a lazy breakfast. Geralt sit next to him, staring as they eat. “Something on your mind?” Jaskier asks.

“I have something for you,” Geralt says, quickly, his cheeks pinking.

“Oh?” Jaskier says. “I do love a nice gift.”

“It is not quite that,” Geralt says slowly.

“What is it then?” Jaskier prompts. “Or must I wait for my birthday?”

“I do not know when your birthday is,” Geralt points out. “It is this,” he continues, holding out his palm. In it rests the silver wolf medallion that normally hangs around his neck. “It seems…wrong, somehow to keep it in storage,” he says. “I would like you to hold onto it.”

Jaskier swallows hard, trying very hard not to cry. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so trusted. “I would be honored,” he manages, before Geralt takes his silence the wrong way.

Geralt drops it into Jaskier’s hand. The silver is warm from being clutched in Geralt’s hand, and the wolf looks up at Jaskier. He runs his thumb over it, making sure to be gentle. “I will guard it with my life,” he promises, slipping it into one of the pockets of his lute case. It feels disrespectful somehow to wear it.

Geralt nods, looking satisfied at Jaskier’s choice. He remains close to Jaskier even after they start travelling. He doesn’t dart off, taking the path quickly and energetically like he normally does, instead keeping pace with Jaskier.

Jaskier smiles at him.

“May I ask you a question?” Geralt asks.

“Of course,” Jaskier says, unable to stop his grin.

“What was it like? The place where you grew up?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier’s taken aback by the personal question. He doesn’t think Geralt has _ever_ asked Jaskier about himself before. “I grew up in a place called Lettenhove,” he says. “It’s up north, by the coast. It was usually quite windy. My family’s estate was quite large, and I used to run around it, pretending that I was on the type of adventures I have now with you.”

“Hm,” Geralt says thoughtfully.

“Kaer Morhen is north as well, isn’t it?” Jaskier prompts.

Geralt nods. “Not near the coast, however. It is in the Blue Mountains.”

“Is it nice there?” Jaskier asks. “I hear the Blue Mountains are quite stunning.”

Geralt shrugs. “I suppose,” he says. “I am…used to them. I cannot remember much that is not Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier immediately has a million questions. _How old were you? What do you remember? How long have you been at Kaer Morhen? Do you wish to see more of the world?_ But he bites them all back, not wanting to overwhelm Geralt. “What is Kaer Morhen like?” he asks instead. Less personal, less prying.

Geralt bites his lip as he thinks. “The fortress is made up of stone,” he says slowly. “It is gray, as is the weather, when it is not summer. It is often cold, but most rooms have a fireplace. There is a lot of space, but we use it for training.”

“Do you like it there?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt just shrugs again. “It is where I live,” he says simply. “Did you not like Lettenhove?”

“I didn’t,” Jaskier agrees. “I felt limited there. Constrained by the nobility and the expectations that came with it. I was glad when my parents agreed to send me to Oxenfurt.”

“The university?” Geralt asks. “What was that like?”

“Definitely warmer,” Jaskier says. “Lively. There’s always someone up to something in Oxenfurt. I quite liked my studies, and practicing in the squares.”

“Is that where you learned to play the lute?” Geralt asks.

“I learned the basics at home, from a tutor my parents hired. Being able to play an instrument nicely enough is considered desirable for noble children. But Oxenfurt is where I _studied_ it.”

“Is that all you studied?”

“Not at all,” Jaskier says. “I can also play the harp. I learned Elder speech as well, and I studied literature and music, the theory and the composition that goes into making it. As a master of the seven liberal arts, you might find that I’m quite well-rounded.”

“I see,” Geralt says, rolling his eyes briefly. “Is that where we met then? Oxenfurt?”

“Nope,” Jaskier says. “I wanted to travel after I graduated, see more of the world. I’d been on my own for a while, playing to ungrateful crowds in taverns. We met in a place called Posada, near the edge of the world.”

“Did you hire me for something?”

Jaskier laughs. “Not in the least,” he says. “A townsman hired you to find a devil that was eating their grain. _I_ noticed that you didn’t throw anything at me during my set, so I decided to talk to you. Then I followed you on your contract.”

“That was stupid of you,” Geralt says flatly. “You could have been killed.”

“I could have,” Jaskier agrees. He remembers the dull thunk of a metal ball hitting his skull, the thump in his ribs when a foot connected with them, remembers hearing Filavandrel draw his blade on Geralt, even if he couldn’t see it. Remembers how afraid he’d felt then, not just for himself, but for Geralt too, Geralt who had spared the sylvan and tried to bargain for Jaskier’s freedom. “But you were able to get us out of trouble.”

“What type of monster was it?” Geralt asks, his excitement poorly hidden.

“No monster at all, really,” Jaskier says. “Just a misunderstanding with a sylvan and a group of elves.”

“Which monsters have you seen with me?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier smiles. _This_ is something that clearly interests Geralt. “You get very grumpy whenever I am close enough to see the monsters,” Jaskier says. “I never saw the selkiemore, but I did help you clean its guts off your body and your hair and all your clothes. The djinn was invisible, but you still managed to push it off me. A griffin got a bit too close once, that was frightening. You hacked off its foot seconds before it sank its claws into my shoulder, it was incredibly impressive, if equally bloody. We were never sure what they were, but you did fight a legion of strange sea creatures off of us once. Before we were saved by a mermaid. They weren’t drowners, but we’ve seen those too. Nekkers too. He was no monster, but you did help a knight who had been cursed to look like a hedgehog. And a doppler. Two of them actually.”

Geralt is staring intensely at him, which isn’t new, but it’s not the calculating kind of look he usually has, instead it’s excitement, eagerness to hear what Jaskier will say next. “A djinn, really? Did it give you wishes? How did you avoid the griffin’s beak?” he asks, rapidfire. “Unknown sea creatures? What did they look like? Why did the mermaid save us? Why was the knight cursed? Who did the doppler impersonate? How did you know they were dopplers?”

Jaskier grins. He doesn’t want to tell Geralt too much, but he’s a gifted storyteller, and crafting stories of all their adventures even while leaving out key details will be easy. So he does, spinning tales for an excited Geralt as they walk beside each other.

It feels a little bit like it had been before, but altogether different, at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several references to events in the books at the end there ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt gets a blast from the past.

Eventually, about a week and half of wandering, they find a stroke of luck, though not in the way that Jaskier expected. The whole tavern he’s getting food from is talking about the witcher who had just rode through and saved them from their haunted cemetery. Jaskier asks endless questions, cloaking it as curiosity and potential fodder for his next song, but really trying to learn everything he can about the witcher. Apparently he was tall, broad, and dark. Had set them reasonably at easy with his confidence before he left for the cemetery at night, and came back in the morning with a dripping head and promises that they would be bothered no more.

He also learns that the town west of them, down by the lake, has a drowner problem, and that they had sent the witcher that way.

Jaskier thanks them, and tips handsomely for not just the warm bread, butter, and jerky they give him but the gossip as well.

He rushes back to Geralt and Roach, waiting for him on the outskirts.

Geralt has Roaches reigns loosely in one hand, and the other one is petting her nose. She has to bend her neck and Geralt has to rise up on his nose to reach, and it’s cute enough to make Jaskier’s heart clench.

“Here,” he says, handing Geralt the rough bundle of food.

“You look…satisfied,” Geralt says, looking up at him.

“Got a lead!” Jaskier tells him, daring to hope. “Here, get up on Roach, I’ll tell you all about it and you can eat on the way.

Geralt nods and with the good grace that he’s acquired over the past week lets Jaskier pick him up and help him onto Roach, instead of snarling and cursing and wriggling his way out of Jaskier’s grip like he had the first time they’d done this.

Jaskier pulls himself up behind him and takes Roach’s reins, setting her trotting down the western road. He’ll speed her up once Geralt is done eating, no need for him to choke.

As Geralt eats, Jaskier tells him about the town, and the witcher, and the town they’re headed to now. Geralt seems excited about the prospect of another witcher, in that he asks a lot of questions (most of which Jaskier can’t answer) and perks up, seems more energetic now than he had before.

Jaskier understands. He knows Geralt feels awfully lost and alone right now, and that he’s not the right person to help him, as much as he wishes he was.

Geralt shifts in the saddle and holds a chunk of bread out for Jaskier, already thoughtfully smeared in butter.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says with a smile, trading him for the reins.

Geralt still makes the same soft clicking noise he did as an adult to Roach, and she starts trotting a bit faster, as Jaskier smiles and wraps one arm around his waist, the other holding his bread. It’s rather nice, almost familiar, and Jaskier finds himself relaxing. Geralt seems to feel it too, settling back into Jaskier’s chest as they ride.

And if Jaskier holds him a little close Geralt doesn’t say anything about it.

They make good time. Geralt doesn’t seem to need as much sleep as a human child (though still more than his adult self) and Jaskier is filled with an almost manic kind of determination to catch the witcher at the next village. Roach is a good horse, dependable, and understanding, and she lets them ride her through the night. They reach the village by midday, and the main square is packed, apparently the whole village has turned out to await the witcher’s return from fighting the drowners.

Geralt is very clearly both excited and anxious even if he tries to hide it.

“Do you want to wait somewhere else?” Jaskier asks, knowing how uncomfortable Geralt is around towns.

“Witchers can be dangerous,” he whispers to Jaskier, holding onto his sleeve. “What if it’s a cat witcher? What if the alderman tries to cheat him and he gets mad?”

Jaskier shifts closer to him, trying to be comforting. “Would you rather come with me?”

Geralt nods.

“Alright, then,” Jaskier agrees. They pay to stable Roach nearby and join the crowd in the square. The crowd is large enough they can easily get lost in it, besides, everyone is too excited for the witcher’s return to pay too much attention to two strangers, even if one of them has the same golden eyes.

“He said it shouldn’t take him long,” a woman tells them. “The drowners killed my man a few weeks back, I’ll tell you, I cannot wait to have them gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt tells her quietly.

“Ah, not to worry, young one,” she says, patting Geralt on the head.

Geralt looks so shocked and affronted that Jaskier has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

Geralt tugs his hood up and down, sulking beneath it.

Jaskier does laugh a little then. “You’re too cute for your own good,” he says.

“Shuddup,” Geralt, grumbles, kicking at the ground.

Jaskier lets him stare at the ground and brood. It’s something he does plenty as an adult, and as a child, it’s actually extremely adorable.

Geralt’s head shoots up several seconds before anyone else in the crowd reacts.

“He’s coming back,” Geralt says softly, voice pitched only for Jaskier. “I can sense him.”

Witcher senses always astonish Jaskier, but he trusts them, and sure enough, less than a minute later one of the children who has scrambled up to a roof is shouting, “He’s coming! He’s coming!”

All around, people start craning their heads and going up on tiptoes to look. Jaskier is glad for his height, because just by rising a bit he’s able to mostly see across the crowd, and see the witcher as he comes.

“Tell me about him,” Geralt demands.

“He’s taller, probably a bit more so than me,” Jaskier says. “Broad. Handsome.” Geralt steps on his foot. “He’s got scars down the side of his face. Brown hair.”

“What’s his medallion?”

“I can’t see from here.”

Geralt huffs. “Lift me up then,” he orders. “I can see.”

“Brat,” Jaskier tells him affectionately, but he kneels a little so Geralt can clamber onto his shoulders. He doesn’t doubt that Geralt could get up there from a standing leap, but there’s no point drawing attention to themselves. Geralt is quick and nimble, a foot on Jaskier’s bent knee, another on the small of his back and then a leg over his shoulder and Geralt is up.

He sits on Jaskier’s shoulders to peer across the crowd better.

Jaskier hears his sharp intake of breath. “It’s a wolf,” he says in quiet tones, scrambling down nimbly, like a cat.

“Like you,” Jaskier says.

Geralt nods. Now that he’s down and Jaskier can see his expression he can see that Geralt has shifted more towards excitement.

At the front of the crowd, the cryer begins to speak.

“Today, the witcher has cleared our river of drowners!” he booms.

The crowd cheers.

The witcher has disappeared with the alderman, likely to collect his pay.

“Come on,” Geralt says, tugging at Jaskier’s hand.

They work their way through the crowd, Geralt leading, although Jaskier doesn’t know how he can know where he’s going without being able to see through the crowd. By the time they get to the alderman’s hut, the witcher is already leaving, swinging up onto his horse.

“Shit,” Geralt says.

Jaskier rolls his eyes at the curse. “Stay here,” he says. Quickly, he grabs the medallion from its resting place in his lute case, before running after the witcher. “Master Witcher!” he calls.

The witcher pulls his horse to a stop and turns around to face Jaskier. “Yes? Do you have another job?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “No, but, we need your help.”

The witcher frowns. “Sorry, don’t work for free,” he says, digging his heels into his horse again.

“Wait!” Jaskier says. “I’m a friend of Geralt of Rivia.”

That makes the witcher freeze. “Geralt has friends?” he asks.

A nervous, shocked laugh bubbles out of Jaskier’s throat. “A few, actually. I’m one of them. Look.” For proof, he fishes out the wolf pendant.

Everything after that happens very fast.

The witcher growls and dismounts, storming up to Jaskier, taking both of Jaskier’s wrists in one big hand, the grip bruising, painful, Jaskier can feel his bones grinding, as the witcher’s other hand goes to his blade, the tip of a very large sword suddenly at Jaskier’s throat.

Jaskier stops breathing, fear flooding him. He desperately hopes he doesn’t piss himself in fright. “Where did you get that?” the witcher growls.

Jaskier tries to find the right words in his mess of a panicked mind, but then in a flash there’s a blade at the witcher’s throat. Geralt’s dagger, held by Geralt himself, who seems to have jumped on the back of this witcher while he was distracted with Jaskier.

“Leave him the fuck alone!” Geralt shrieks, clearly trying to be growly and intimidating, but his high voice betrays him.

The witcher freezes beneath his blade.

“Let him go!” Geralt repeats.

“Geralt, it’s okay,” Jaskier manages, a rush of worry and relief clearing his head. Worry that Geralt is now in danger, relief that he’s here to help, always protecting Jaskier.

“Geralt is _here_?” the other witcher asks, sounding confused.

“Get back!” Geralt says, still hanging off the witcher, one arm holding the dagger to his throat, one holding his body weight up by one of the witcher’s shoulders, his legs around the witcher’s waist.

“Please, let me explain,” Jaskier says.

“Could you get this kid off of me?” the witcher asks, his posture starting to relax. Geralt growls as he rolls his shoulders but doesn’t let it dislodge him.

Jaskier takes a deep breath and starts to relax. It seems like the witcher is willing to listen.

“I won’t get off until you leave Jaskier alone,” Geralt continues, clearly less willing to listen.

“Damn, kid, relax,” the witcher says. He lets his sword arm go loose, sword pointing at the ground, turning his other over, showing his empty palm.

“Drop the sword,” Geralt insists.

The witcher huffs but does so.

Geralt still hangs off him for a few beats before he gets down, landing lightly on his feet and darting in between them, putting himself and his dagger in front Jaskier, his posture defensive, stance reading for fighting.

“It’s alright,” Jaskier murmurs at him, reaching out a hand to touch him.

The witcher raises both his hands, nonthreatening. “Calm down,” he says. “I’m not gonna hurt him.”

He stares at Geralt and even though, Jaskier can’t see it, he knows that Geralt is staring back at him.

“Your eyes…” the other witcher says.

“I can explain,” Jaskier starts.

The other witcher ignores him, kneeling to be of a height with Geralt. “Geralt?” he says softly.

Geralt goes stiff for several long seconds before he gasps. “Eskel,” he says on a soft breath, sounding for all the world like he might actually cry.

The other witcher actually smiles.

“Eskel!” Geralt calls, dropping the dagger and throwing himself into the other witcher’s arms so fast he’s a blur.

The other witcher, Eskel, must be, catches him and holds him close, cupping the base of Geralt’s skull. “Fuck, man, what happened to you?” he asks.

“I got cursed,” Geralt says into his shoulder. He voice is muffled but it sounds thick, like he’s trying not to cry.

“Always in trouble,” Eskel says. Jaskier can see him smiling.

Geralt presses closer to him for a second, until he abruptly stiffens and pulls back, stumbling out of his arms. “Uh,” he says. “Sorry.”

Eskel just opens his arms again. “Who’s gonna yell at us?” he asks. “Your friend? Come here.”

Geralt does, falling back into Eskel’s chest.

Eskel picks him up like he weighs nothing and stands. “I forgot your hair was ever this color,” he says, flicking the end of Geralt’s ponytail.

Geralt pulls his face out of Eskel’s neck and wrinkles his nose. “Jaskier said something like that too.”

“It changes color eventually,” Eskel says. “All white, like snow.”

“ _You_ look different too,” Geralt says.

“I know,” Eskel says, and his eyes flick away briefly before returning to Geralt. “My face got fucked up.”

Jaskier’s eyes are drawn to his scars, and he wonders if Eskel is self-conscious about them. Geralt himself doesn’t seem to think very much about his own scars, but well, there’s only two small ones on his face.

But Geralt says, “No,” and rolls his eyes. “You’re older now.”

“Rude little shit,” Eskel accuses, but the good humor is back in his expression.

“I said ‘old _er_ ’,” Geralt says, a grin on his face. “You’re bigger than me now.”

“You’ll get big soon enough,” Eskel assures him.

Geralt is still staring at him. Eskel is apparently used to this, or decides not to let it bother him, as he lets Geralt continue to stare and holds his hand out to Jaskier. “Eskel,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

“Uh, nice to meet you too,” Jaskier says, shaking his hand. It feels odd. The first time he’d met Geralt, Geralt had scoffed at him, ignored him, punched him, and mocked him. Eskel seems much more polite. “I’m Jaskier.”

Eskel grins. “The bard,” he says, sounding delighted. “I’ve heard your songs.”

“You have?” Jaskier asks, feeling surprised despite himself.

“ _Toss a coin to your witcher_ ,” Eskel sings. He winks at Jaskier. “We got a whole winter’s worth of teasing out of that,” he says.

In his arms, Geralt frowns again. “There’s a song about me?” He wrinkles his nose.

“I told you I wrote about you,” Jaskier says.

“Yeah, but, I didn’t think…” Geralt trails off, looking unsure.

“All his songs are about you, little wolf,” Eskel says.

“That’s…why?” Geralt asks, turning all his sharp, serious attention to Jaskier.

“Because you’re fascinating,” Jaskier tells him honestly. “You’re not just strong, but you’re smart, and good in your heart too.” He takes a chance and pokes at Geralt’s chest.

Geralt blinks blankly at him. Jaskier can tell that he doesn’t believe him, but that’s fine. He hasn’t been discouraged yet by Geralt’s refusal to believe him as an adult or a child.

“That’s why I write you songs,” he explains, “so you’ll believe it, and so everyone else will too.”

Geralt clearly doesn’t know what to say, looking like he wants to dart off, but he can’t, in Eskel’s arms.

“Don’t worry, no more emotions for now,” Jaskier assures him. He claps his hands together. “We’ve got a sorceress to find, and little witcher to grow.”

“What happened to the person who cursed him?” Eskel asks.

“Dead,” Jaskiers says. “Geralt beheaded him seconds before he shrunk.”

“Ah,” Eskel says. “Doomed yourself, huh, Geralt?”

Geralt just shrugs. “Sounds like I was doing my job,” he says.

Jaskier and Eskel both laugh.

“Got any leads?” Eskel asks, setting Geralt down.

“Just you,” Jaskier says brightly, patting Eskel on the arm.

Eskel rolls his eyes. “Well, let’s see if we can find a town with a mage,” he says, giving Geralt a clap on the back. He must do it exactly as hard as he normally would, because Geralt stumbles over his own feet, and aims a glare back at his face and a kick back at Eskel’s shin.

Eskel just chuckles and mounts up.

Geralt waits expectantly at Roach’s stirrup, a signal to Jaskier that he wants to ride. Jaskier lifts him, easier every time, even if this time Geralt can’t quite meet his eyes afterwards. Jaskier can sense his embarrassment, most likely at needing help in front of another witcher. He doesn’t try to press Geralt at all, or tease him, just takes Roach’s reins in hand and follows Eskel.

Eskel, for his part, doesn’t remark at all on Geralt’s new method of mounting his horse. “You’ve really been just wandering without a plan?” he asks.

Jaskier shrugs. “We’ve not yet found a mage that can meet our needs,” he says.

“Hmm,” Eskel says, and Jaskier grins, wondering if it’s a witcher trait. But Eskel continues. “I can’t pretend I know enough magic to understand something like this, even if I _am_ better at it than our little white wolf here.”

Geralt bares his teeth. “I am better at everything else,” he says snottily.

Jaskier can’t help laughing. “And very humble.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It is simply the truth.”

“Unfortunately, it is,” Eskel sighs. “Geralt was always an overachiever.”

Geralt shrugs. “I am just doing what is asked of me,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But you also like showing off,” Eskel says.

“Witcher’s don’t show off,” Geralt says, in the deep voice that Jaskier knows now is him mocking his teacher.

Eskel laughs so hard Jaskier thinks that only witcher reflexes keep him on his horse. “I’d forgotten you used to do that,” he says once he can get his breath. “Fuck, that’s funny. You should do it in front of Vesemir sometime. You’re too big for him to whip now.”

“No!” Geralt says immediately. “And _you_ , do not tell him!”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Eskel promises, still laughing. “I think he’d find it funny though.”

“He would not,” Geralt objects.

“Well, probably not as you know him, no,” Eskel agrees, sobering. “But he’s loosened up in his old age.”

“If you say,” Geralt says, in a tone that clearly shows that he does not believe Eskel.

“Speaking of,” Eskel says, “we could head to Kaer Morhen. There’s plenty of books, we could do research on this type of spell. And I’m sure Vesemir knows how to get in contact with someone who might be able to help.”

Geralt kicks lightly at Jaskier’s shoulder to get his attention.

Jaskier looks up at him and finds him sitting up ramrod straight, fingers white knuckled on a portion of Roach’s reins. He meets Jaskier’s eyes and shakes his head.

“Don’t know how to get there,” Jaskier says easily, giving Eskel a shrug as his brain frantically works over Geralt’s silent communication. It’s clear that Geralt doesn’t want to go to Kaer Morhen, and that he doesn’t want to Eskel to know it. Jaskier can’t really think of _why_ , it would be someplace familiar for him, someplace safe for them to hole up, and Eskel has a good point about the wealth of knowledge and connections a legendary fortress might have. But Jaskier trusts Geralt, has for years, and it’s not easy to put that instinct aside, even if Geralt currently lacks the perspective and experience that he usually has.

“Ah, that’s right,” Eskel says. “Geralt, you’ve never left, have you?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I have only gone into the surrounding forests to hunt.” He looks and sounds much more relaxed than he was just a few seconds previous, presumably glad for the out.

“But you have me now,” Eskel continues. “I could lead us.”

Jaskier is trying not to stare at Geralt and give him away, but he sees him go tense in his peripheral vision anyways.

“Isn’t it dangerous?” Jaskier tries. “Could you get yourself, two horses, Geralt, and myself up a mountain safely?”

“It would not be easy,” Eskel admits. “But it’s summer, which means the trails are much easier.”

“We’ll think about it,” Jaskier says, thinking quickly. “But we are friends with a sorceress. I’ve been looking about information about her as well, trying to contact her.” Yennefer had originally been his plan b, but she’s starting more and more to look like plan a.

“Oh, friends with a sorceress, are you? Geralt introduce you?” Eskel says, his voice teasing.

“Actually, it was me who brought the two of them together,” Jaskier says. “Nasty business with a djinn.”

“A djinn?” Eskel repeats. “I don’t think that story is in any of your songs.”

It isn’t, because between choking to death on his own blood, and being unconscious, Jaskier doesn’t remember enough about the story to tell it properly, and Geralt would never fill in the blanks for him, even though Jaskier can make some educated guesses. His last wish, to leave Rinde immediately and go someplace far away, hadn’t been granted, which he hadn’t thought much of at the time, assuming Yennefer had something to do with it, but now he figures it hadn’t been her doing at all, but Geralt’s. “I angered it,” he tells Eskel and Geralt, both looking at him curiously. “It attacked me. Geralt brought me to a sorceress to heal me. He saved my life.” He looks up at Geralt and smiles.

One edge of Geralt’s mouth lifts up.

“Her name is Yennefer of Vengerburg,” Jaskier continues. “Have you heard of her?”

“I can’t say I have, unfortunately,” Eskel says. “And you have no idea how to contact her?”

Jaskier shrugs. “We tend just to run into one another.”

“So your plan is to…wander the continent until you come across one specific person?”

“We were wandering aimlessly anyways,” Jaskier points out. “Looking for monsters. This isn’t so different.”

Eskel’s frown suggests that he thinks that it _is_ , but, unlike Geralt, he seems to have _manners_ , and doesn’t want to insult Jaskier. “Well, if we can’t find this Yennefer, perhaps we will head to Kaer Morhen,” he says.

“Perhaps,” Jaskier agrees carefully. He’s noticed that Eskel didn’t mention when they were to give up on finding Yennefer, and he’s sure Eskel noticed his lack of agreement. But that’s okay. Eskel can think him a foolish, stubborn human all he wants if it keeps Geralt from getting that look on his face ever again.

Luckily Eskel doesn’t bring up going back to Kaer Morhen again. Equally luckily, Jaskier is good at being distracting. A few well-placed questions about Eskel’s latest hunts, backed up by Geralt’s clearly eager listening, and the next few hours pass in a whirl of storytelling.

With a look at Jaskier, Eskel declares that they make camp just as dusk starts setting in. Jaskier doesn’t mind being thought of as the weak link, nor does he mind having the decision-making taken from him.

Geralt hops down from Roach and Jaskier starts unpacking her, handing Geralt his bedroll.

To his surprise, Geralt takes it and walks a few feet away from Jaskier before settling it down. He looks at Jaskier and takes his lip between his teeth.

Jaskier frowns. He’s gotten used to settling down to sleep next to Geralt, and the boy is clearly changing their arrangement. Jaskier tilts his head at him in silent question.

Geralt tips his head towards Eskel and gives Jaskier a pleading look.

Jaskier nods at him and gives him a reassuring smile. Geralt has been quicker to become lively with Eskel’s company, but he still seems ashamed to admit weakness in front of him. Jaskier can understand that.

It’s a warm enough night that they don’t need a fire, and Jaskier shares some of nuts and berries he’s been picking up along their way, since Eskel seems to be planning on eating flavorless rations.

Eskel takes them easier than Geralt as an adult would have, with an easy smile and a “Thank you” instead of a grunt.

Jaskier smiles back at him. “I know I’m just a bard, but I can offer us some evening entertainment,” he says, gesturing to his lute.

Across from him, Geralt’s head picks up in interest.

Eskel grins at him. “Is that an invitation for requests?” he asks.

“But of course,” Jaskier says, removing the lute from its case and starting to tune it. He’s been playing so often on the road now with Geralt that it comes quicker, easier, the strings not having as much time to shift.

“Toss A Coin To Your Witcher,” Eskel requests, nothing but mischief in his grin.

“That one’s about me,” Geralt says, a question as a statement, directed at Jaskier.

“It is,” Jaskier says. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

Geralt shakes his head. “It is…odd to imagine.”

“Well you won’t have to imagine much longer,” Eskel says. “Go on, bard.”

Jaskier laughs and obliges. Eskel is much more animated audience than Geralt ever was, humming along and joining in on the chorus. Halfway through, he reaches into the pouch at his waist for a coin to flick at Geralt.

Geralt scowls and throws the coin back, aiming for Eskel’s eyes.

Eskel catches it easily, of course, and Jaskier tries not to laugh and ruin the song.

When he’s done, Eskel applauds.

Jaskier takes and exaggerated bow without getting up. “What did you think?” he asks Geralt.

“Hm,” Geralt says.

Jaskier laughs.

“I am thinking!” Geralt objects. “That is the story you told me of when we first met,” he says. “The…misunderstanding with the elves.”

Jaskier nods.

“One of them is a lie,” Geralt points out. “The story and the song cannot both be true.”

“I took liberties when I wrote it,” Jaskier admits, chuckling. “And, well, I may have had a goal or two of my own.”

“Which were?” Eskel prompts.

“Improving Geralt’s reputation,” Jaskier says honestly. “And witchers in general, I suppose. You hear so much about them being cold, unfeeling monsters, and then I saw you, all alone in that tavern and it seemed…wrong. And I knew you weren’t like they said you were, because you were the first to ever pay me for my music.” He says all of this directly to Geralt, watching the boy bite his lip and contort his face in an effort to hide his emotions. “And he showed mercy to the sylvan, gave his reward money to the starving elves. I can’t do much, but I wanted to do what I could. And, I thought, it might be nice to get the people to stop bothering the elves.”

Eskel tilts his head at him. “I have to hand it to you, bard,” he says. “Quite clever.”

Jaskier winks at him.

Geralt shifts slightly closer, enough to knock his foot into Jaskier’s outstretched one.

“Did you like it?” Jaskier asks him. “Lies and all?”

Geralt nods.

“I knew it,” Jaskir says. “You like to pretend that my songs annoy you, but I always knew you liked them.”

“I did not say it was not annoying,” Geralt says.

Jaskier laughs and kicks him back. He starts to play again, random melodies and scales. “Any more requests?”

“No more about me,” Geralt says quickly.

Jaskier smiles. “No more about you,” he agrees, even as he flips through his non-Geralt repertoire. Eskel requests a few older songs, something hesitant in his requests, like he’s not sure Jaskier will know them. Jaskier finds himself extraordinarily glad for the semester he’d spent on the history of folk tunes over the last hundred years. He wonders idly if these are songs Eskel remembers from his childhood somehow, but he doesn’t ask.

By the time he’s played three, darkness has fallen and he’s started to yawn. “Bedtime,” he says, stretching.

Geralt gives him a nod and then heads away to his own bedroll, sliding in, body stiff.

Jaskier tries not to sigh. He notices that Eskel hasn’t moved at all. “Do you need bedding?” he asks hesitantly.

Eskel smiles at him again and shakes his head. “I can stand guard for a while,” he offers. “Witchers do not need as much sleep as humans, or as much as growing little witchers.”

Geralt makes a rude gesture in Eskel’s direction without even turning over.

“Rude little shit, aren’t you?” Eskel says, but he sounds fond.

Jaskier laughs, climbing into his own bedroll.

Eskel gets up and strides over to Geralt, and Jaskier pretends very hard not to be listening.

“You okay sleepin’?” Eskel asks softly, which makes Jaskier wonder if Geralt had had nightmares at this age the first time, and if Eskel knew about it.

“Sleeping is not difficult,” Geralt says.

“Alright,” Eskel says. “Wake me up if you need anything.”

Geralt does, a few hours later, his choked sounds of pain waking Jaskier up immediately.

“Fuck,” he says, scrambling out of his bedding to get to him.

Eskel, already awake and faster, is there first, speaking in a low voice. “Geralt, wake up, you are fine, it’s Eskel.”

Jaskier kneels down next to him. “He’s probably not sleeping,” he says quietly. Geralt doesn’t seem to have proper nightmares, or if he does, he wakes up from them quickly, wakening to the pain they leave behind. “Hush, now,” he murmurs, running a hand down Geralt’s back.

“Careful,” Eskel says

“It’s just me,” Jaskier murmurs to Geralt, “Just Jaskier.”

Geralt makes a noise and throws himself over to face Jaskier, even though his eyes are screwed shut.

“Come here, I’ve got you,” Jaskier says, pulling Geralt into his chest, still running his hand up and down the tight line of Geralt’s back.

“Hurts,” Geralt says, his voice breaking as he fists his hands in Jaskier’s shirt.

“What hurts?” Jaskier asks softly.

“My bones,” Geralt gasps. “Feels like they’re gonna burst out of my skin.”

Jaskier wraps one hand around the base of Geralt’s skull and tugs him closer. Next to them, Eskel takes in a sharp breath.

Jaskier looks at him.

“It’s likely leftover pain from the trials,” Eskel says quietly. “Shit. It aches for months afterwards, most of us were bedridden a whole season. Geralt healed faster, but it must be close enough that his body is still adjusting to the mutations.”

Jaskier threads his fingers through Geralt’s ponytail.

“Maybe it’s just memory though,” Eskel muses.

“It’s terrible,” Jaskier says.

“Does he do this every night?”

“He did at the beginning. But since he started sleeping beside me it’s gotten better, I think.”

“Why did he-oh. Me.”

Jaskier nods. “I know cuddling isn’t witcher approved,” he says. “But I’d do anything to help him.”

“Well, this witcher approves,” Eskel assures him.

Jaskier continues to hold onto Geralt until the boy settles, tucking his face into Jaskier’s throat.

“There you go,” Jaskier murmurs. “It’s alright.”

“Mmph,” Geralt says.

He doesn’t ever cry, Jaskier’s noticed. His face is hot but dry against the skin of Jaskier’s neck.

Eskel mouths a “Better?” at Jaskier.

Jaskier nods a little.

“Geralt?” Eskel says.

“No,” Geralt says churlishly, not removing his face.

It’s very hard not to laugh. It might be because it’s dark, but Jaskier thinks he sees Eskel’s mouth quirk up.

“Geralt,” Eskel says again.

“What,” Geralt says flatly.

“Are you never going to look at me again?” Eskel asks, amusement clear in his voice.

“Why?” Geralt demands.

Jaskier can’t help snorting.

Geralt kicks him.

“It’s alright,” Eskel says, placing a hand on the top of Geralt’s head.

Geralt stiffens.

“Do you think I will be angry with you?” Eskel asks. “I’m not.”

Geralt shakes his head.

“I remember how this felt,” Eskel says. “Like you’re being torn apart from the inside.”

Geralt nods.

“I screamed and cried too,” Eskel confesses softly. “I would have done anything for someone to comfort me like this. There is no shame in taking what is offered, Geralt.”

Geralt makes a soft wounded noise against Jaskier’s throat. “Witchers don’t,” he mumbles eventually.

“Well you’re yet to pass all your trials,” Eskel says. “So I would say that you don’t have to follow all the witcher rules quite yet.”

“That’s not what the masters say,” Geralt says, his voice still muffled and pouty.

“Well they’re not here now, but I am. And I won’t tell.”

Geralt seems to think that over for several seconds before he simply says, “Okay,” and relaxes again.

Jaskier grins at Eskel over Geralt’s head.

“Go back to sleep, little wolf,” Eskel rumbles, running his hand through the hair on the top of Geralt’s head.

Geralt makes a soft noise and shifts, his breathing slowly falling into the rhythm of sleep between them.

“I can take him if you want,” Eskel says softly to Jaskier, once they’re both sure Geralt is asleep again.

“It’s alright,” Jaskier says. “Help me rearrange him?” 

Eskel helps him get Geralt laid back down on his bedding, Jaskier laid out beside him. The dirt he doesn’t mind, not for Geralt. Eskel steps away, and Jaskier assumes he’s going back to his watch, but then he returns a few moments later with a pillow and a blanket for Jaskier.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, smiling.

Eskel smiles back. “Thank you,” he says. “You are taking good care of him. I…Geralt and I have been friends since we were younger than this. I care for him. I’m glad he has found someone who can help him.

“I care for him too,” Jaskier admits. “A great deal. I would do anything to take his suffering from him.”

“He would not want you to,” Eskel points out.

“I know,” Jaskier says. “But, I want to ease what I can nevertheless, he deserves that much.”

“He does,” Eskel agrees.

“I’m sure you do too, you know,” Jaskier adds. “Don’t be a broody witcher with me if you don’t want. Feel free to join us when you do sleep.”

Eskel just chuckles. “Goodnight, little bard,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone who wanted to see Eskel is pleased :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions ahead of the death of the witchers.

The three of them fall into a sort of routine. Eskel and Geralt are always up before Jaskier, and when Jaskier rises, he eats his breakfast as the two witchers finish. Eskel goes off to take care of the horses – his, Jaskier has learned, is called Scorpion – while Geralt slows down, eating alongside Jaskier.

Geralt’s energy from before seems to have increased. Eskel is, of course, more able to keep up with him than Jaskier, and the two of them will leave Jaskier with the horses while they race through the woods and down paths. Eskel always wins, but Geralt always tries to take him down somehow, by surprise, by jumping on him, or taking him out at the knees.

Eskel always catches him, but isn’t adverse to wrestling in the dirt with Geralt while they wait for Jaskier and the horses to catch up.

Usually, once he does, he finds them sitting in the dirt, play wrestling and shoving.

But one afternoon, as soon as Jaskier comes across them, Geralt leaps at him, taking him by surprise, and knocking Jaskier to the ground.

“Oof,” Jaskier says, as he back collides with the hard ground. But the breath isn’t knocked from him, and he knows that Geralt hadn’t hit him with all the force he was capable of.

Geralt sits atop him, grinning, looking like a wild thing with his gap-toothed grin, dirt streaked all over his face, and his hair falling from its tie, around his face in disarray.

“Menace!” Jaskier accuses, using his bigger body to knock Geralt backwards, his hands skating up Geralt’s sides to tickle him.

Geralt falls back with good grace, a sudden laugh bubbling from his throat. He’s a vicious little thing, legs kicking and hands clawing, even though he doesn’t actually draw blood. Jaskier knows perfectly well that even young as he is that Geralt is just as strong as Jaskier himself, and has years of training besides.

Still, Jaskier wrestles with him, trying to pin him as Geralt wriggles around.

“Give!” Geralt says, still grinning, the next time he gets Jaskier pinned on his back.

Jaskier laughs, delighted even in defeat. He can feel himself panting, a stitch forming in his side. “Fine, fine, you win.”

Geralt rolls off of him, still grinning.

“That wasn’t half bad, either of you,” Eskel says, sitting cross-legged on the ground nearby.

Geralt’s back to his feet in one smooth motion, practically bouncing.

Jaskier flops back on his back, exhausted. He wonders if Geralt’s seemingly endless energy has to do with him being a witcher or if it’s simply the blessing of his youth. “Help me up,” Jaskier demands.

“Get up yourself!” Geralt says, sounding lighter than Jaskier’s ever heard him. But he does extend his hand to pull Jaskier to his feet. “You’re not that heavy,” he says.

Jaskier shoves him.

Geralt bites his lip, and Jaskier realizes that this what Geralt looks like when he’s trying not to break out laughing.

“Nothing but trouble, aren’t you, Geralt?” Jaskier says, then darts to the side, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist and lifting him.

Geralt squawks and flails his legs.

Eskel actually laughs.

“Put me down!” Geralt demands and Jaskier crushes him to his chest.

Jaskier spins him around a few times, just because he can, before he does.

Geralt is bright eyed and happy when he looks back up at him.

Jaskier would do anything to make him look like that all the time. It’s still rare, but Geralt has finally started to seem open, almost relaxed.

Eskel leads them as they travel. He has better hearing, keener sight than Jaskier, and is able to steer them clear of anything lurking. They find another small town a day out, small settlements seem to be clustered around the lake and its water source. Geralt hesitates just outside it, so Eskel goes in alone to look for contract, and to replenish their rations.

He doesn’t come back with a lead or any reports of monsters, but he does come back with a sweet bun and a short sword for Geralt.

Geralt takes them both reverently, wide-eyed.

Eskel smiles at him and pats his head. “Let’s go on a bit longer. We can train tonight when we make camp.”

Geralt nods, apparently still speechless. The sword has a sheath, made for strapping to one’s belt, but Jaskier notices how Geralt’s hand instinctively twitches to his back.

“Here, tie it to Roach so you can ride,” Jaskier says quietly.

Geralt nods, and does so, one handed, treating both the word and the bun like they’re precious. He lets Jaskier lift him up no problem. Jaskier looks over at him as he leads Roach after Scorpion. Geralt eats the sweet bun slowly, with reverence, like he’s never had such a treat before. Maybe hasn’t, thought the thought makes Jaskier sad. He keeps stealing glances to where the sword is tied to Roach’s saddle, clearly enamored with it.

It had been late in the day when they started, so they don’t ride for more than an hour or two before Eskel leads them off the trail to make camp. The promise of training gives Geralt enough energy that he’s almost vibrating in the saddle.

As soon as Roach is still Geralt hops down and starts untying the sword.

“Eager?” Eskel asks, grinning as he unties his own sword.

Geralt nods. He’s already starting to grin in return.

Jaskier feels a flash of guilt. Of course there’s no way for him to have given Geralt the training he so clearly craves, but seeing how eager he is, how quickly he slides into stance across from Eskel, it’s obvious that he’d been lacking it.

Eskel attacks first, what might be a relatively easy opening blow for a witcher but one so fast that Jaskier is glad he hadn’t blinked

Geralt blocks it easy, ducking under both swords and sweeping his own, trying to cut at Eskel’s wrists.

Eskel simply smacks downward with his sword, knocking Geralt’s blow into the air, sending his center of balance lower. His next swing is lower, carving through the air towards Geralt, who leaps back to avoid it.

Jaskier’s heart is in his throat. He knows that Geralt has already been training for years, he knows that he’s already enhanced, faster, stronger, _better_ than a human could ever hope to be. But he also knows that Eskel’s sword is real steel, deadly sharp and deeply cared for. He’s also easily twice the size of Geralt, and it would be so, so easy for any miscalculation to be the last thing Geralt ever does.

But maybe the fight plays out different for a witcher, because what looks to Jaskier like death-defying close calls don’t even seem to be noticed by the two of them, blades clashing, dust swirling around their feet as they move. Eskel is mostly quiet, as far as Jaskier can tell, but Geralt’s grunts and shouts he can hear over the sound of the blades. He wonders if that’s something he gets trained out of him; whenever Jaskier has seen him fight as an adult he’s been quiet, just measured exhales. Jaskier untacks the horses as he watches, giving them both a thorough brushing. He’s been sneaking Scorpion treats as well, and the horse seems to like him, nosing at Jaskier’s shoulder gently and making pleased noises when Jaskier feeds him.

Roach bumps her head against Jaskier’s back in a more demanding way and he turns to smile at her, giving her the other half of the carrot. “Wasn’t gonna leave you out, girl,” he murmurs.

Geralt’s grunts have picked up in frequency now, and as Jaskier turns to look he sees that Eskel clearly has him on the defensive, pushing him back, Geralt’s sword up firmly, absorbing the blows.

Eskel switches quickly, swinging low, and Geralt doesn’t quite react in time, deflecting the blow but losing his footing as he does.

“Shit!” he says as Eskel puts his blade next to his neck.

“Got you,” Eskel says.

Geralt growls and pushes his sword away with his own. “One time,” he says.

“Still counts,” Eskel grins.

Geralt sits in the dirt with a huff. “I am rusty,” he says.

“Excuses, excuses,” Eskel says. But he offers his spare hand to Geralt, who takes it, with minimal grumbling.

Jaskier can’t help himself, he starts applauding.

The witchers turn to him, Geralt still looking grumpy, Eskel chuckling.

“That was a quite a show, gentlemen,” Jaskier says. “It’s not everyday a man gets to see two witchers go at it.”

Eskel takes a theatrical bow. “Glad to entertain,” he says.

Geralt continues to frown.

“C’mon, little wolf,” Eskel says, ruffling the back of Geralt’s head.

Geralt pulls away, making noises of deep betrayal.

“Do you know how to fight bard?” Eskel asks, picking up the sword’s sheath. He inspects it, turning it over a few times before he slides it in.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Geralt tried to teach me, but I was far from a gifted student. I am handy with a dagger though.”

“Jaskier agreed to fight me once,” Geralt says. “I won, despite his cheating.”

“It was adult Geralt who taught me how to cheat,” Jaskier tells Eskel. “Said if I was going to be fucking useless at fighting head on I had to make my own advantages.”

“He was right,” Eskel says. “ _You_ should have cheated more, little wolf. Gone for my kneecaps.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “That is not proper training,” he says.

“Such a good little pupil,” Eskel teases. He goes for Geralt’s head again, but Geralt dodges him. He steps up to Jaskier’s side, and Jaskier can’t help tugging at his ponytail.

Geralt makes an affronted noise and jerks back, pouting.

“Couldn’t resist,” Jaskier says, grinning at him.

“Here,” Eskel says, throwing Geralt a hunk of jerky. Geralt catches it easily, starting to eat immediately.

“Protein for muscle growth,” Eskel says, tossing a strip to Jaskier too.

Jaskier catches it, though less easily and less absentmindedly than Geralt had. He flexes his bicep and grins at Eskel. “The lute is heavy, need these muscles to carry it around.

Geralt grabs his bicep and squeezes. “Yours are _not_ large,” he declares.

Jaskier squawks at him.

“Neither are yours, _little_ wolf,” he says, pinching Geralt’s arm in retaliation.

Geralt glares at him. “I have been abed for fourth moths,” he says. “You have not.”

“Four months?” Jaskier repeats.

Geralt’s eyes go wide and he snaps his mouth shut. “I…I did not mean…”

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asks, letting his tone gentle.

“I have already told you about the trials,” Geralt says, looking away.

Oh. The horror of it sticks in Jaskier’s brain for several seconds. “I…didn’t quite realize,” he says slowly. Hadn’t realized exactly how much the trials must have damaged Geralt’s body to require such healing.

“Only three out of ten boys survive,” Eskel says, also quiet now. “On average.”

“Will you tell me?” Geralt blurts, anxious and earnest. “Who else survived?”

Eskel swallows but nods. “Just us and Gweld,” he says.

Geralt nods. “Three out of twelve,” he says. He sighs heavily. “Is Gweld still….have you seen him?”

Eskel shakes his head. “He died on the path a few decades back,” he says.

Geralt nods again, but Jaskier can see his throat work and his chest start heaving, his teeth slinking into his bottom lip. “It is what happens,” Geralt says.

Hidden from Eskel, Jaskier places a hand on the small of his back.

“What about the older boys?” Geralt asks, his words slow and carefully placed.

Eskel exhales slowly. “It is…not widely known, what happened,” he starts slowly. “Jaskier would not have been able to tell you. What do you know of witchers, Jaskier?”

“Not much,” Jaskier admits. “The basics, and what Geralt has told me.”

Eskel nods. “There have never been a lot of witchers. The low survival rate of the trials ensures it. But…decades ago…Kaer Morhen was sacked.”

Geralt goes perfectly still against Jaskier’s hand, everything except his breathing, which picks up.

“Sacked?” Jaskier asks.

Eskel nods.

“How did they get up the trail?” Geralt asks, his voice trembling.

“Mages,” Eskel says. “Opened portals. There were hundreds of attackers, pouring through the portals. It was a massacre.”

Jaskier starts rubbing his hand up and down Geralt’s back, trying to offer what little comfort he can.

“Everyone?” Geralt asks, his voice barely a whisper.

“Vesemir was the only one at the keep to survive. But the knowledge and supplies needed to perform the trials were destroyed. Time has taken care of most of the rest of us.”

“Aren’t there other schools?” Jaskier asks carefully.

Eskel nods. “Don’t have much contact with them. I know a griffin though, Coen. He’s comes sometimes, since Kaer Seren was destroyed as well. Don’t know of any others. I’m sure there’s more of us somewhere.” He shrugs.

Geralt is perfectly still, his harsh breathing the only animated thing about him.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” Jaskier says.

“Nothing to do with you, little bard,” Eskel says gruffly.

“I need to…need… _fuck_ ,” Geralt says, before he’s running off like a shot into the woods.

Eskel sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I knew it would upset him. I didn’t want to. But he deserves to know.”

Jaskier nods. “There’s no way he wouldn’t be upset by it. Shall I go after him?”

Eskel shakes his head. “He didn’t go far, I can still hear him. Give him a few moments to himself.”

Jaskier nods. “Let’s get a fire started,” he says. “I have some tea in my bag. I know it’s warm out, but it ought to be somewhat settling.”

“The night ought to cool down soon enough,” Eskel agrees.

They have water for the tea boiling when Eskel goes stiff, sitting straight up and tilting his head towards the woods.

“Is it Geralt?” Jaskier asks anxiously. “Is he alright?”

“He’s not hurt,” Eskel says. “I can hear him screaming and whacking a tree with his sword.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. He supposes it makes sense as a way for Geralt to get his pain out.

Eskel relaxes. “He’s not in danger,” he says. “Can’t sense anything else.”

Jaskier nods in agreement. They watch the water continue to boil in silence. Jaskier desperately wants to say something, anything to make Eskel seem less stiff, but he doesn’t know him well enough to know what types of comfort he’ll take to.

“Give me whatever you use to drink out of,” he says, shaking his bag of tea leaves. Eskel rummages a bit before he comes up with an old beaten tin cup.

“The cup might get hot,” Jaskier warns.

Eskel shrugs. “Won’t bother me,” he says. He lets Jaskier puts the leaves in but he knocks Jaskier’s hands away from the pot to pour the water himself. “Can’t have you burnt, bardling,” he murmurs.

Jaskier is touched by the thought. “In that case, pour one for me too?” he asks, offering his own cup.

Eskel does and they end up back in silence as their teas steep and cool.

“Can you still hear Geralt?” Jaskier asks eventually, unable to stand the silence.

Eskel nods. “I can hear his heartbeat. But he’s quiet now.”

“Should I go after him?” Jaskier asks.

Eskel shrugs. “I’m not sure,” he admits.

“I’ll go,” Jaskier decides, standing up. “Which way is he?”

Eskel points into the trees off to the right. “Straight through there. He didn’t go too far.”

Jaskier nods, confident that Eskel will shout if he goes too far wrong or if something is about to maul him. He weaves around the trees, keeping his eye on the straight line. And it’s a good thing he’s looking down, because Geralt is easy to miss, curled in the roots of the tree, dirty and dusty, his head in his bent knees. Jaskier is sure he’s heard him approach, but he doesn’t move or acknowledge him.

“Geralt?” Jaskier says, crouching down.

Geralt ignores him.

“May I touch you?” Jaskier asks, his hand hovering above Geralt’s knees.

That at least gets a response: Geralt nods.

Jaskier cups his hand around Geralt’s knee, rubbing his thumb across it.

They stay like that for a long while, as Geralt doesn’t move. Jaskier takes a chance and shifts closer. “You don’t have to speak,” he assures Geralt. “But you know how I like to talk. It’s fine to be upset. Anyone would be after learning something like that. I’m upset as well, and I’m nowhere near as personally involved as you. But I don’t want you to be alone out here all night. Will you come back to camp? I made some tea.”

“Why do you have tea?” Geralt asks, voice muffled against his knees.

“Because it tastes nice, and it can be relaxing after the stress of travel.”

“It is a waste of space,” Geralt murmurs.

“Not to me,” Jaskier says. “I do not find comfort to be a waste. But you can waste the tea if you don’t want to drink it.”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Geralt says.

“Which is?”

“Trying to get me to come back.”

“Yes, well, I did just say that,” Jaskier says. “You don’t have to be alright, or pretend to be, but I would appreciate it if you came with me.”

“I will,” Geralt says. “But…can we sit here for a while longer? Please?”

“Of course,” Jaskier says. “Can I share your tree?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier shifts so he’s sitting with his back to the tree like Geralt.

Geralt sighs softly and lets himself list over, until he’s leaning into Jaskier’s side.

Hesitantly, Jaskier lifts his arm so he can settle more comfortably. When Geralt just leans farther into Jaskier, Jaskier takes a chance and lays his arm across Geralt’s shoulders.

Geralt exhales against him, and Jaskier just holds him close. He doesn’t move for a long time, as the night darkens around them, shadows growing, moonlight adding a touch of silver to everything. Eventually though, Geralt says, “Can you still see?”

“Yes,” Jaskier says. He can, though not well, and not in any detail.

“We should go back,” Geralt says quietly. “Before it’s too dark for you to see.”

“So considerate,” Jaskier says, rubbing at the skin beneath his fingers. “But I’ll be alright. I’ve got you to guide me.”

Geralt presses closer briefly before he pulls back. He stands smoothly, offering Jaskier a hand.

Jaskier takes it, making sure to smile at Geralt. Surprisingly, Geralt keeps a hold of his hand, stooping briefly to pick up the sword before leading Jaskier back out through the forest. He drops it as they’re about to enter the campsite, but Jaskier doesn’t mind, warmed by the affection he’s already been given.

“Hey,” Eskel says. “Jaskier made you tea,” he says to Geralt, offering him a cup. “I’ve reheated it for you.”

“Thank you,” Geralt says quietly. He takes it and sits, sipping quietly.

Eskel has thoughtfully already laid out their bedrolls, and Jaskier notices that he’s put Geralt’s next to Jaskier’s own. He smiles, and slides into it.

“Time for humans to sleep,” he says easily.

In the light of the small fire, he sees Eskel smile at him. “Goodnight, little bard,” he says.

“Goodnight, Jaskier,” Geralt says.

Jaskier doesn’t fall asleep right away, dozing to the quiet sounds of the forest and the fire. Eventually he hears the soft clatter of dishes being put away, and the light of the fire disappears.

“Geralt,” Eskel says softly.

Geralt doesn’t say anything back, but Jaskier assumes that he made some sort of acknowledgement, because Eskel keeps speaking.

“I am sorry,” Eskel says. “I know it is not easy to hear. I wish I did not have to tell you.”

“It is not your fault,” Geralt says quietly.

“Still. It is…alright to be distressed,” Eskel says.

“Jaskier said the same thing,” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier smiles into his pillow.

“He’s not entirely a fool,” Eskel says.

Geralt snorts a little, and Jaskier is tempted to give up his pretense of sleep.

“He is not,” Geralt agrees.

“Sleep, little wolf,” Eskel says gently. “I’ll stay awake for a bit longer yet.”

“You do not have to,” Geralt says. “Jaskier and I have been sleeping without a watch.”

“Don’t need as much, you know that,” Eskel says. “But thank you.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything in return, but soon enough, Jaskier feels him slide into the bedroll beside him.

“Jaskier?” Geralt whispers.

Jaskier hums in response.

Geralt shifts closer, resting his head next to Jaskier’s chest.

“Here,” Jaskier murmurs, wrapping an arm around him and rolling over so he’s on his back, pulling Geralt with him until his head is resting on Jaskier’s chest where it had been earlier, right near the beat of his heart.

Geralt murmurs, a vague embarrassed sound, but he settles down.

“Sleep,” Jaskier murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” Geralt breathes, almost too quiet to hear.

Jaskier drifts into sleep like that, Geralt a warm weight against his chest.

He’s not particularly surprised to wake up a few hours later to Geralt’s quiet noises of distress.

“Shh,” he says, running his hand up and down Geralt’s spine.

“Sorry,” Geralt murmurs.

“S’okay,” Jaskier slurs. “Mm, do you want me more awake?”

Geralt shakes his head against Jaskier’s chest.

“Hurts?” Jaskier asks. “Or nightmares.”

“Both,” Geralt whispers.

“This okay?” Jaskier asks. “Do you need something else?”

“No, nothing else,” Geralt says. “This is…good.”

“Good,” Jaskier says, smiling. He keeps one hand going up and down Geralt’s back, raising the other to rub at the base of his ponytail.

He has no idea if Geralt ever falls back asleep or not, though he seems to be still awake when Jaskier himself does. When he wakes up, instead of eating breakfast with Eskel, Geralt is still curled against his chest, eyes closed and his breathing even. Jaskier’s not sure if he’s asleep, meditating, or just relaxed. Eskel, on Geralt’s other side, is more obviously meditating, his legs folded beneath him, face relaxed. The side of his legs are pressed against Geralt’s back, firm points of contact.

Jaskier smiles, and closes his eyes, happy and content to drift some more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt experiences yet another type of pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fantasy, canon-typical violence and detailed descriptions of wound care in this chapter.

Geralt is quiet the next few days. He barely speaks unless spoken to, and even then he answers in as few words as possible. He’s listless, all his bounding energy gone, replaced by a quiet child atop horseback. Jaskier catches him petting Roach’s neck and murmuring to her a few times, which is heartening. He hardly eats either, unless Jaskier guilts him into it by refusing to eat until he does. Nights are the only time he lets himself be comforted, but they’re also the worst.

Jaskier is awoken in the middle of the night every night by Geralt sliding into his arms and pressing his face into his chest, his breathing heavy. He lets Jaskier rub at the base of his ponytail and hum softly, but any attempts to talk are met with stiff silence, that is, if Geralt doesn’t simply roll away.

Jaskier feels helpless, unsure what to do to help Geralt while also keeping the boy’s pride intact, and Eskel seems guilty, equally unwilling to push him.

Then they’re attacked by nekkers.

Geralt is walking for once, eyes on the dirt, Jaskier at his side with Roach in hand, when Eskel goes still.

“Shit,” he says, seconds before the first nekker tunnels out of the ground. More soon follow, launching themselves at the three of them with truly ghastly yells and noises.

“Get back!” Eskel commands, unsheathing his sword and taking one of their heads off in the same breath.

Jaskier automatically reaches for Geralt and goes to push the boy behind him, but Geralt has also done the same thing, and he _is_ trained and armed, his sword already out, so Jaskier relents. This is closer to fights than he normally gets, and Eskel up close is just as breathtaking as Geralt, fluid as water, sharp as ice, as he cleaves through the nekkers like butter, spraying guts and blood everywhere as the nekkers scream.

No one notices the few who have broken off from the mob, that is until one of them tunnels up and grabs Jaskier’s leg.

He goes down with a shout, his leg being dragged into the hole as the nekker tries to claw its way up with his body.

“Jaskier!” Geralt screams, high and wild, and then he’s moving, straddling Jaskier’s shoulders so he can slash at the nekker’s eyes.

The nekker screeches as one of its eyeballs bursts, letting go of Jaskier to claw at its own face. Jaskier kicks it in the chest with his freed leg at the same time Geralt plunges the sword into the nekker’s already ruined eye socket.

Jaskier pulls himself forward on the ground, getting his foot out of the hole. He’s been lucky he knows, his ankle feels bruised but not broken, or even sprained, and though his body aches from colliding with the ground, he can tell that he hasn’t even broken any of his ribs.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks, scrabbling around to crouch beside him.

“Yes,” Jaskier pants. “I’m fine, let’s-”

Geralt yelps as another nekker flings itself onto him, tackling him to the ground. His sword is knocked from his grip, spinning away in the dirt.

Gralt and the nekker both scream at each other, the nekker clawing Geralt’s clothes to shreds as Geralt tries to wiggle his way partially out of its grasp, arm outstretched, hand scrabbling his sword, the nekker now only hanging onto his legs.

“Fucking disgusting pig’s cock!” Geralt shrieks, twisting, wriggling, kicking out at the nekker as well. 

Jaskier lunges for the sword, thinking he can probably at least stab a nekker in the head, but then Geralt screams again.

The nekker seems to have given up on overtaking Geralt and is using its grip on his legs to drag him away instead.

Jaskier makes a choice and goes for Geralt instead, seizing him around the chest, holding Geralt close as the nekker continues trying to tug. Geralt tries to help, pushing into Jaskier and away from the nekker with whatever leverage he can, swearing the whole time. It’s an impressive range of curses for a nine year-old.

“Keep your hold of me,” Geralt orders.

Jaskier does, firming his grip and terrified about whatever Geralt is about to do.

He pulls his dagger from his belt and lunges forwards, taking Jaskier with him, as he bends himself in half and embeds the dagger in the nekker’s head.

The nekker screams and trashes wildly, but Geralt must have missed its brain, because it neither quiets nor lets go.

Geralt grunts and uses the dagger as leverage to haul himself further out of the nekker’s grip.

The nekker, still clinging to both life and Geralt’s ankle, howls, head and limbs jerking unnaturally.

Geralt gets one foot free and starts kicking the nekker in the head. “Die off, fuck face!”

The nekker gives one last tug at the same time Geralt gives one last kick.

There’s a sharp snapping sound followed by a wet squelching sound, both equally horrifying.

The nekker goes limp, part of its skull caved in, and Geralt does too, sinking back against Jaskier’s chest, breathing hard.

“Fuck, are you both alright?” Eskel asks, skidding up next to them. He pulls the nekker corpse aside and plucks Geralt’s dagger from its head.

“Geralt’s ankle,” Jaskier says quietly. Without the nekker slumped over it Geralt’s left ankle is obviously broken, lying at an unnatural angle in the mud.

“It’s not a big deal,” Geralt says.

Jaskier and Eskel ignore him. “Let’s get him out of the mud,” Eskel says.

Jaskier nods and shifts his hold on Geralt, pulling him into his lap properly. “Sorry, Geralt,” he says as he moves the boy’s legs over his arm.

Geralt’s face goes tight, but he doesn’t make a noise or flinch. “I can stand up on my own,” he says through gritted teeth.

Jaskier ignores him again, and looks to Eskel. “Help us up?”

Eskel nods and, firm and steady, lifts Jaskier to his feet, Geralt in his arms.

“This is ridiculous,” Geralt complains. “I’m fine.”

“Your ankle is broken,” Jaskier points out, because apparently Geralt is determined to ignore this fact.

“I’ve broken my ankles before,” Geralt says.

“At Kaer Morhen, where there were healers,” Eskel points out.

Geralt flinches slightly at the mention.

Eskel pretends not to notice as he takes both Scorpion’s and Roach’s reins and leads them all away from the stench of nekker corpses, pausing only to grab Geralt’s sword from the ground.

Geralt sighs and drops his head onto Jaskier’s shoulder. “This is humiliating,” he complains.

“You’ve carried me like this a fair few times,” Jaskier tells him. “It’s not all that bad.”

“I have?” Geralt asks, picking his head up. There’s more interest and life in his voice than there has in days.

Jaskier nods. “Twisted many an ankle and knee following you around,” he says.

“That’s because your boots are too fancy,” Geralt tells him. “You need better boots.”

Ahead of them, Eskel snorts.

“My boots are fine, thank you very much,” Jaskier says.

“If they were you would not be injuring yourself.”

“I don’t injure myself,” Jaskier objects. “The rocks and roots and holes injure me.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, clearly disbelieving.

Speaking of though, Jaskier does have to start watching the ground as Eskel leads them off the path and into the woods. He can’t trip now, not with Geralt in his arms. He’s so focused on the ground that he actually almost walks into Roach’s ass, if Geralt hadn’t said, “Stop.”

Jaskier does stop, looks up, and sees that Eskel has found them a clearing, close enough to the path that the trees are still spaced out, yet far enough that they’ll be hidden if anyone happens down the road.

“Let’s take a look at that ankle,” he says, guiding Jaskier to sit, his back against the tree.

Jaskier tucks his legs beneath him and shifts Geralt so Geralt is sitting in his lap proper, legs extended, back against Jaskier’s chest.

Eskel has one of Roach’s saddlebags in hand, he puts it on the ground and gently lifts Geralt’s injured ankle up to rest on it.

Geralt goes stiff, but he doesn’t so much as wince.

Jaskier keeps his arms looped loosely around Geralt’s middle. He wants so badly to kiss the boy’s head and assure him that everything will be alright, but Geralt seems determined to suffer stoically, and Jaskier doesn’t want to push him. So he watches, simply holding Geralt loosely, as Eskel takes one of their waterskins and pours it over the dirt and mud and nekker blood that still clings to Geralt’s ankle.

“Don’t waste our water, stupid,” Geralt says.

Eskel raises an eyebrow at him.

“Shush,” Jaskier advises. “Let Eskel work.”

“Listen to your bard, little wolf,” Eskel says, wiping lightly at Geralt’s ankle with the cloth.

Jaskier can’t see Geralt’s face like this, but he can picture the boy biting his lip as he pulls back further into Jaskier’s chest.

Eskel undoes the laces on Geralt’s boot, twisted around with his ankle, but then leaves it and goes to slowly working up the leg of his pants.

Geralt makes a quiet hissing noise in between his teeth at Eskel’s touch, but still doesn’t scream or cry.

Praise feels like it’s bubbling inside of Jaskier, he wants to soothe Geralt, tell him that he’s doing well, but he knows the boy won’t take to it, not just yet.

Deep bruising extends up from Geralt’s ankle, mottled greens and purples coloring his leg above his boot. Scratches follow him, sharp little red lines marking up the skin. None of them look deep however, all scabbing already. With the laces loose, Eskel starts trying to work the boot off, one hand resting lightly on top of Geralt’s leg to keep it steady, the other one working at the heel of the boot.

Geralt does make a sound then, a whimper or gasp that’s instantly choked off.

Eskel pauses briefly before choosing to ignore the noise, but Jaskier can’t help tightening his arms around Geralt, just a bit.

Another tug, and Geralt turns his head to the side, hiding it in Jaskier’s chest. More tugs, and he starts breathing harshly through his nose, and the boot doesn’t seem to be coming off.

“Eskel,” Jaskier says quietly.

“I know, fuck,” Eskel says, his voice a growl. “I’m gonna have to cut it off. Hold still, Geralt,” he warns, drawing a knife from his belt.

Geralt holds himself still, and while it’s something that’s fascinating in Geralt as an adult, as a child, it’s almost eerie. Children are supposed to be moving, full of energy, and it’s odd to see Geralt go still as a statue.

It must make it easy for Eskel though, because just a few confident slices and Geralt’s boot is coming off his foot. Shredded, but off.

Geralt’s ankle is an ugly mess. The bruising higher up fades into the deep red of pooled blood, the skin stretched tight, swollen, over the broken joint, the angle of his foot even more unnatural bare. It’s impossible to tell if there are scratches over the bruise as well. It hurts Jaskier just to imagine how much it must have hurt.

Eskel lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Geralt, you never do anything halfway, do you?”

“Is it bad?” Geralt asks.

“It’s gross,” Eskel tells him. “Take a look.”

Geralt does, picking his head up from Jaskier’s chest. “Urgh,” he says, but he sounds more intrigued than repulsed by it.

Jaskier’s impressed. _He’s_ getting a little freaked out looking at it, and it’s not even his ankle.

“Can you feel this?” Eskel asks, taking one of Geralt’s toes and wiggling it.

“Yes,” Geralt says.

“Good,” Eskel says, poking the skin a few times. “It looks like you still have circulation, gonna come out of this with all your toes.”

Geralt scoffs at him. “I said it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Oh, little wolf, you’re gonna feel real differently about that when I stick my finger in your ankle.”

“What?” Jaskier says before he can stop himself.

Geralt pats at his wrist a little bit.

“Gotta make sure there’s no bone fragments just floating around,” Eskel says. “Besides, I need to be able to see or feel the bone to set it correctly, and I can’t with all this blood in the way.”

Jaskier’s stomach churns, but Geralt just lets out a little sigh.

Eskel pulls out several things from his pack: a sewing kit, a roll of bandages, a strip of bark, and a bottle of vodka.

“Gimme a sip,” Geralt demands.

“It’s for cleaning your ankle,” Eskel says.

“You’re too young to drink,” Jaskier says automatically, and Geralt throws him a dirty look over his shoulder.

“If you’re going to pour that on me after you cut me I deserve a sip,” Geralt argues.

Eskel shrugs. “Fair enough,” he says, passing Geralt the bottle.

Geralt tilts his head back to take the sip, then sighs and wipes his mouth. If Jaskier had drunk straight vodka when he was nine, he would have spat it out. But Geralt just hands the bottle back to Eskel, and Eskel trades him for the strip of bark.

“Willow bark?” Geralt asks, sounding dismissive.

“I know it won’t do much, but it’s to bite down on and chew while I set your ankle, alright?”

Geralt shrugs, but takes the bark, just holding it as he slumps back into Jaskier’s chest.

Jaskier tightens his hold on him again. He can feel himself getting nervous, which is ridiculous.

Geralt must sense it too, because he actually takes Jaskier’s hand in his own. “I will be fine,” he tells Jaskier.

“I know you will be,” Jaskier assures him.

At Geralt’s feet, Eskel is cleaning his hands and the knife with the vodka, before crouching over Geralt’s ankle. “Ready, little wolf?”

Geralt nods and slips the bark between his teeth.

“Make sure you hold him still, bard,” Eskel says.

Jaskier nods and holds Geralt tightly in his arms, his left hand still tangled with Geralt’s right.

Eskel nods at them once before turning his complete attention to Geralt’s ankle. He pours more vodka over the worst of it, and as soon as it starts drying, slices with the knife.

Blood pours out freely, thick and dark.

Geralt makes a muffled grunt but otherwise doesn’t react, even continuing to watch.

Eskel lets the blood drain for a few seconds before he gently prods at the wound with a finger. He keeps prodding, gently feeling it out. Whenever he pokes Geralt makes a soft noise and more blood trickles out. At one point Eskel leans in close and does pry the edges of the cut apart, sticking the tip of his finger in, like he’d said he would.

Geralt’s noise is less muffled this time, much more of a shout, but he continues to hold himself perfectly still.

“Good,” Jaskier says lowly, giving into the praise he’s wanted to give all along. “You’re doing well Geralt.”

Geralt “hmphs” around the bark in his mouth and rests his head back on Jaskier’s chest.

“So, so well,” Jaskier continues, his voice as whisper as Eskel’s prodding pushes another wave of blood out.

“It was a clean break,” Eskel declares, pulling back a bit. “No bone fragments.”

“Good,” Jaskier says, stroking at Geralt’s fingers absentmindedly. Geralt allows it, which is how Jaskier knows that he’s in far more pain than he’s comfortable displaying.

“I’m going to realign it now,” Eskel continues. “It’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”

Geralt takes the bark out of his mouth with his free hand to say, “I can take it.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not going to feel like shit,” Eskel says.

“I’ve got you,” Jaskier says, very quietly, dropping his head so he can say it right next to Geralt’s ear.

Geralt gives a small nod and squeezes Jaskier’s hand a little. “I’m ready,” he tells Eskel, putting the bark back in his mouth.

“Brace yourself,” Eskel says. He places one hand on Geralt’s leg, above the swelling, but still over the bruising and the scratches. He cups Geralt’s twisted foot in his other hand and tilts his head a bit. Then, on a controlled exhale, he pulls Geralt’s ankle until it’s straight, before pushing it up into place.

Geralt does scream then, or he would, if he wasn’t biting down. He buries his face in Jaskier’s chest almost violently, probably leaving bruises, his grip increasing on Jaskier’s hand. His high wounded noise eventually fades into harsh pants, but he still doesn’t remove his face from Jaskier’s chest.

“You’re so good, Geralt, so good,” Jaskier whispers into his hair.

Geralt makes a sound like a soft whimper.

“Just a bit more,” Eskel says, almost sounding apologetic as he shifts Geralt’s ankle a tiny bit more.

Geralt grunts into Jaskier’s chest when he does, still panting harshly.

“It’s alright, you’ve done so well,” Jaskier tells him. He presses a kiss into the top of Geralt’s head, unable to help himself.

Geralt trembles against him but doesn’t move away or make a sound.

Eskel works quickly and efficiently, holding Geralt’s ankle together in one hand as he quickly stitches up the cut he’d made with the other.

Geralt doesn’t react to the needle at all, but he doesn’t relax either, his breaths still fast and harsh, his fingers spasming in Jaskier’s grip.

Jaskier tries to loosen it, but when he does, Geralt just clamps down harder, so he returns the pressure, lets Geralt squeeze his hand before releasing it, over and over, a quick kind of rhythm.

Eskel pours more vodka over Geralt’s ankle, splashing some up over the scratches trailing up his leg. Geralt’s ankle does look better now, properly aligned, and less like a deformed lump. Eskel wraps it in bandages, around the ankle, looping it around the arch of Geralt’s foot, back up to where a low boot might rise. When he’s done, he ties the bandage before tucking the end into one of the layers. “Now, you two stay here,” he says. “I’ll find some sticks to serve as a splint.”

Jaskier nods at him. In his chest, Geralt makes the motion of something like a nod, but doesn’t lift his face. As soon as Eskel disappears into the tree line, Jaskier gives into his instinct to lift the hand that’s not being clutched in Geralt’s high enough to run his fingers through his ponytail, press at the base of his skull.

Geralt shivers against him but doesn’t move away.

“Does it hurt awfully?” Jaskier asks softly, noting Geralt’s continued harsh breaths.

“Not that bad,” Geralt says, also quiet.

“But still bad?”

Geralt shrugs against Jaskier a little. “This is…I haven’t…this is my first injury since…after they…as a witcher,” he mumbles clumsily.

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “Does it feel quite different?”

Geralt shrugs again. “It…aches.”

“You heal quite fast,” Jaskier says. “Perhaps it’s already started.”

“Hm,” Geralt says noncommittally.

“It could be a good sign,” Jaskier encourages. “Get you back on your feet sooner. I know you don’t like this.”

“Am I injured often?” Geralt asks him. “When you are beside me.”

“Yes,” Jaskier admits, tugging Geralt just a bit closer. He doesn’t quite understand what Geralt is getting at, but he thinks Geralt would know if he lied. “I’ve seen you come out of many a monster fight with all sorts of gashes. I always try to help you best I can.”

“Do I let you?” Geralt asks, his voice somehow even quieter.

“Yes,” Jaskier says fervently. “I’ve gotten quite good at sewing up wounds as well as clothes. You’ve taught me which of your potions can be helpful, and how to help when you’ve had too many. You always tell me not to worry about you, but, well, I do admit that I’m not very good at that.”

“Why do you go through such trouble?” Geralt asks. His voice is so quiet and small that Jaskier has to really focus to hear him.

“I know you don’t especially like hearing it, but I care quite a lot about you, Geralt. You’re my dear friend, and I do not wish to see you suffer. So if I can help, I do.”

Geralt presses impossibly closer and trembles. Jaskier just holds him, swaying gently, petting Geralt’s hair, until he hears Eskel coming back through the forest. He stills and drops his hand to Geralt’s shoulder, aware that Geralt has some sort of needless witcher’s pride in his head when it comes to Eskel, but doesn’t pull away or let him go.

“Glad to see the two of you managed to stay out of trouble for so long,” Eskel says, several long, sturdy sticks in his arms.

“We _can_ behave ourselves,” Jaskier tells him.

“One time isn’t enough to make me believe that,” Eskel says. He kneels back down at Geralt’s feet, holding the various sticks up to the side of his leg, hovering close but not touching. Eventually he finds two that he deems to be the right length and sets them aside before throwing the others back in the forest. He lines the two up against Geralt’s ankle, holding them both in place with one large hand before wrapping them in place with more bandages.

Geralt hisses a bit into Jaskier’s chest, but otherwise remains still and silent throughout.

“Good, Geralt,” Eskel says lowly, giving Jaskier a significant look. “All done now.”

Geralt picks his head up out of Jaskier’s chest to look at the ankle. It does look much better, all immobilized and wrapped up. Geralt’s face in splotchy with color, and his eyes look damp, but there’s still no tears or tear tracks.

Jaskier rubs a hand up his back a few times.

“Wanna get out of here?” Eskel asks.

Geralt nods.

Eskel smiles at him and stands, scooping Geralt into his arms easily.

Jaskier takes the bags from the ground and puts them back on Roach, murmuring quietly to her and petting her as he does. With a soft click of his tongue he gets her to kneel so Eskel can put Geralt right in the saddle.

“We shouldn’t go far, don’t want your ankle to be dangling like that for too long,” Eskel says.

Geralt nods, still quiet and stoic as Roach rises.

Jaskier comes to stand next to him, placing a gentle hand as high up on his leg as he can reach. “Do you feel up to traveling?” he asks. “Neither Eskel nor I will mind if you want to make camp right here.”

Geralt shakes his head, taking a few steady breaths before speaking. “I’ve had worse,” he says, and he says it so blunty, so factually, that it’s tragic.

Jaskier can’t help the soft noise that bubbles up in his throat. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t also hurt now,” he points out.

“It’s fine!” Geralt blurts, his chest heaving suddenly, clearly upset.

Jaskier frowns. “Things don’t have to be just ‘fine’, Geralt.”

Geralt stares at him, moves his mouth a few times, and then, horrifyingly, bursts into tears.

As soon as the tears start he throws his hands up to cover this face, muffling his sobs and hiding. His whole body shakes with the force of his sobs, making him sway a bit in the saddle.

Jaskier, shocked, looks back at Eskel, who is frozen, staring blankly at Geralt like he’s never seen anyone cry before. Jaskier clicks his tongue again, and Roach kneels, and Jaskier is so glad that she’s such a good horse, because he can just step up and pull Geralt down off the saddle, cradling him.

Geralt makes a muffled noise at that and shoves his face and hands into Jaskier’s neck as he shakes.

“I’ve got you,” Jaskier says lowly. “You’re going to be alright.” Slowly, he lowers himself back to the ground, leaning back against a tree. Geralt is _heavy_ , and this way, Jaskier can rock him a bit again. “I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere,” he says softly, near Geralt’s ear. Truthfully, he’s scared. He’s never seen Geralt fall apart so completely, and he’s not quite sure what he’ll do once he stops crying. He supposes it’s a good thing that Geralt won’t be able to get far on his ankle.

Jaskier continues murmuring and rocking Geralt as he sobs, shaking against him, his chest and back expanding forcefully, working hard.

“Keep breathing,” Jaskier tells him, rubbing Geralt’s back. “That’s it, deep breaths.”

Geralt takes a few shuddering breaths, and Jaskier can tell it’s a struggle.

“Hush now, in and out, that’s it. With me,” Jaskier murmurs, focusing on his own breath and on projecting calm, hoping it will soothe Geralt.

Eventually the sharpness of Geralt’s breath eases into something more regular, no longer a struggle.

“There you go, perfect, so good, Geralt,” Jaskier praises.

Geralt makes a wounded noise and trembles.

Jaskier instantly feels guilty. He should have known that Geralt wouldn’t take well to praise, especially now, especially when he feels undeserving. “I’m here,” he assures instead, holding Geralt close.

Geralt sniffs miserably and goes limp against him.

Jaskier swallows so he doesn’t call him “good” again.

It’s a long while of quiet, of Jaskier just holding Geralt and swaying gently, before Geralt says, “You can let me go now.”

“Are you going to try to run away?” Jaskier asks.

“Can’t,” Geralt mumbles miserably.

“You can hide in my shoulder as long as you’d like,” Jaskier tells him.

Geralt sighs. “Should’ve just let the nekker finish me,” he mumbles quietly.

Jaskier can’t help flinching. “ _Never_ ,” he says insistently, unable to resist the urge to drop a kiss on the nearest part of Geralt’s head. He can’t help trying to lighten the situation, the concept of Geralt being dragged away from him by that nekker too much to deal with. “Even if you did just get snot all over my doublet.”

Geralt tries to struggle free of Jaskier’s arms, but Jaskier tightens his grip. He has no doubt Geralt could free himself if he wanted, but he can tell that Geralt not only doesn’t really want to get away, he also doesn’t want to hurt Jaskier.

“Kidding,” Jaskier says. “Sorry, couldn’t help the joke. I love you and your snot, Geralt.”

Eskel snorts a little.

Geralt flinches at the reminder of his presence.

“I’ll go see if I can’t find us something to eat,” Eskel says. He kneels down in front of them though, and places a hand on the back of Geralt’s neck.

Geralt goes still.

“I would have never the nekker finish you off,” Eskel says quietly. “Not if I can protect you. I’m sorry I wasn’t faster. But you did well today, protecting yourself and Jaskier, and letting me tend to your wound. You have no reason for shame, Geralt.”

Geralt makes a soft noise and trembles again.

Jaskier smiles at Eskel over his back. “Well done,” he mouths.

Eskel shrugs awkwardly. He pats Geralt once before standing. “Right. I’ll bring you back a deer if I can find one,” he says, steel sword across his back, as the disappears into the trees.

Geralt breathes out shakily against Jaskier’s neck.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

“I know,” Geralt says. He sounds miserable about it. He sighs and further relaxes into Jaskier. Slowly the shakiness of his breaths ease, until they fall into the rhythm of sleep.

It makes sense. Geralt is probably exhausted from both his injury and the wound. Jaskier holds him close, letting his damp breath ghost across his skin.

His head snaps up when he hears movement in the nearby woods, but it’s just Eskel, a fawn slung over his shoulder.

Jaskier places his finger to his lips in a shushing gesture.

Eskel nods. He moves quietly across the campsite, getting to work on the animal. Jaskier assumes that he had been noisy in the woods before for the benefit of Jaskier’s human ears.

Geralt remains asleep, head against Jaskier’s shoulder.

“I can take him if you want to sleep,” Eskel says softly as the night grows darker.

Jaskier shakes his head. “It would only wake him.” It’s true that the ground is hard beneath him, that the tree is rough against his back, and that Geralt is heavy atop his legs. But he’s finally found something like peace, and Jaskier can’t bear to take it from him.

Eskel nods. “I do have to elevate his leg,” he says. He has another pack of saddle bags and blankets in his hands, which he puts down on the ground. Slowly, he lifts Geralt’s leg, adding the padding below it.

“Mmph,” Geralt murmurs into Jaskier’s chest. “Wha’?”

“Hush now, you’re alright,” Jaskier says softly, stroking a hand over Geralt’s brow. “Go back to sleep.”

“Jask?”

“Yes, I’ve got you, I’m here,” Jaskier continues as Eskel sets his leg back down.

“Sure?” Geralt asks, voice heavy with exhaustion.

“I’m sure,” Jaskier says. “Go back to sleep, now.”

“Mm,” Geralt says, settling down and drifting back off.

Eskel is watching them carefully.

“He’s had a day,” Jaskier says.

Eskel chuckles. “Make sure you get some rest too, little bard.”

“Of course,” Jaskier agrees. “I am only human after all.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier, Geralt, and Eskel go into a town for once.

The next few days feel awkward. Jaskier doesn’t want to make Geralt feel self-conscious, or bring his injury into light, but it’s equally impossible to ignore. Geralt gotten better to the point that, while he can’t put any weight on his ankle without hissing, he has enough balance that doesn’t need to hide his face in shame in Jaskier’s chest when he helps him piss anymore. His ankle is clearly healing, much better and faster than a human’s would, but it’s still a problem. He’s able to sit atop Roach well enough, while Jaskier leads her at a slow, steady pace, but even that has its limits, for after dangling off the side of a horse his ankle will begin to swell again. He doesn’t make a noise of complaint, of course, but without a boot the swelling is obvious, and Jaskier or Eskel call a halt whenever they notice it.

When they do, Jaskier helps Geralt down, the boy gritting this teeth, lowering him to the ground so they can elevate the ankle for a while. He wishes there was a way they could travel with ice to cool it down, but they’re forced to make do and limp along for a few days, trying to keep Geralt’s ankle from getting worse. Jaskier would feel better if a real healer could take a look at it, but he’s not sure Geralt would allow it.

“We should make a stop,” he finally says when they settle down the third night. “Find a real bed, get some real rest.” So far they’ve stayed pretty well clear of towns, Jaskier going in alone to play for coin or Eskel going in to look for contracts, or either one of them going for supplies or information. Geralt still seems wary of towns, though Jaskier isn’t quite sure if it’s because they’re overwhelming for him or if he’s afraid of someone discovering that he’s a witcher. He thinks it’s most likely a combination of both.

But rest in a proper bed and some real, hearty food ought to do Geralt a world of good.

Eskel nods. “I agree,” he says.

Geralt frowns. “I am alright,” he says. “The ankle does not hurt that much.”

Jaskier runs his hand across his head.

Geralt’s face twitches like he’s trying not to pout.

“I could use a nice feather bed as well,” Jaskier says. “It’s been a long time.” He gives a longing sigh.

“You know you are unlikely to find a feather bed at a random inn,” Eskel says.

“I can pretend easier on a mattress of some kind,” Jaskier says. “Please, witcher, let me dream.”

Geralt smiles a little and sways into Jaskier’s shoulder.

“I could go scout ahead,” Eskel offers. “See if I can’t find signs of civilizations nearby.”

“Now?” Jaskier says, looking around at the darkening forest.

“I can still see,” Eskel says. “Scorpion and I are fast.”

Jaskier worries his lip. “Alright,” he says. “Don’t come back too long after dark.”

“Of course,” Eskel agrees. He leaves his saddle bags behind, nothing but the sword strung across his back. “Geralt,” he says, swinging up onto Scorpion, “you got your dagger? Keep Jaskier safe.”

“I will,” Geralt says, solemn and serious.

Jaskier scoffs.

Eskel leaves, the sound of hoofbeats slowly fading into the distance.

Geralt lets out another soft sigh, leaning further into Jaskier’s side.

“Okay there?” Jaskier asks.

“I am fine,” Geralt says.

“You know I can see through that,” Jaskier says.

“My ankle does hurt,” Geralt admits. “But it is not intolerable.”

“You don’t need to be ashamed,” Jaskier says. “Witcher or not your body needs time to heal.”

“I do not wish to be a burden,” Geralt whispers.

Jaskier wraps his arm around his shoulders. “You are no burden,” he says. “If it were me who was injured would you consider me a burden?”

“No,” Geralt admits. “But you are a human.”

“So? That just means I would be a burden for longer.”

Geralt is quiet, clearly thinking.

“We do not mind because we care about you,” Jaskier continues.

Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s bicep.

Jaskier lets him, lets him breathe and settle. Even relaxed he trusts that Geralt’s senses will give them plenty of warning should anything arrive.

Sure enough, Geralt says, “Eskel is coming,” well before Jaskier hears any sort of approach.

Eskel comes riding into their campsite, looking loose and relaxed, his sword still sheathed.

“Any problems?” Jaskier asks.

“I’m fine,” Eskel says. “Did the two of you manage to stary out of trouble?”

“We did,” Jaskier says proudly.

Geralt sniggers a little against him.

“Well, I’ve found us a town,” Eskel announces. “It’s not far, we should be able to make it by nightfall tomorrow with just a bit of pushing.”

“Do you hear that, Geralt?” Jaskier says, jostling the boy just a bit. “We are going to have real beds tomorrow night.”

Geralt huffs at him. “So excitable,” he sighs. “Like a child.”

Jaskier flicks his ear. “Keep that up and you shan’t get a bed,” he warns primly.

“Then this would all be pointless,” Geralt points out. “Stop being ridiculous.”

“I’ll stop being ridiculous when you stop being _mean_.”

Geralt sighs. “I am not being mean. I am being sensible.”

“You’re being _boring_.”

“ _You’re_ being annoying.”

“Children, calm down,” Eskel interjects.

Jaskier laughs. “A bit of banter never hurt anyone,” he says, ruffling Geralt’s hair again.

“Nonsensical,” Geralt sighs, but when it’s time, he still falls asleep with his head turned into Jaskier’s shoulder.

When they start the next day he’s quiet, more so than usual.

Jaskier asks him twice, privately, if he’s in more pain than normal, but Geralt just shakes his head, and his face doesn’t looked strained, and his breathing is unlabored, and his ankle swollen a normal amount, so Jaskier lets it rest.

It’s not until they start seeing other travelers and Geralt flinches that Jaskier realizes what’s going on.

He drifts back a little so he can put a hand on Geralt’s thigh. “Hey,” he says. “It’ll be alright. You can stay close to Eskel or me and not have to speak to anyone else.

Geralt frowns. “I am not afraid,” he says.

“But you don’t like towns,” Jaskier says gently. “We are going to be alright. And you’ll get to see me play for a crowd tonight. It’s quite the show,” he adds, winking at Geralt.

“If they’ll let you play,” Geralt returns, a small smirk on his face.

Jaskier gasps dramatically. “So rude, Gerlat! Of course they will! I am a famous bard, after all.”

“So you keep saying,” Geralt says, deadpan, and Jaskier snorts.

Geralt’s smirk remains, clearly pleased with his jokes, and he stays much more relaxed even as they enter the town proper. It’s the most relaxed that Jaskier has seen him since he learned about what happened to his fellow witchers, and it makes something in Jaskier’s chest relax.

The town itself is not large, nor is it hardly more than a village. Jaskier can see what he’s quite sure is a small market row, a few other shop buildings that he’s too far from to make out their goods, and, of course, a tavern, marked by a wooden sign out front with a horse mid-leap.

Geralt rolls his eyes at it. “Horses do not behave that way,” he says.

“Art is about exaggeration,” Jaskier tells him as he helps Geralt dismount from the saddle. Eskel is handing the reins of Scorpion and Roach to the stableboy, and seems to be giving him both plenty of instructions and a fair bit of coin.

“I’ve learned such from your ballads,” Geralt says.

“Again, rude,” Jaskier says, but he’s smiling. He’ll let Geralt make as much fun of him as he wants if it means he’s starting to relax once more. He lets Geralt lean against his side, weight fully off of his ankle, as they wait for Eskel to join them again.

Jaskier winks at them both and leads them into the tavern.

Several people look up at the sound of the door, and while most soon return to their cups or their food, several continue to stare, at Eskel’s bulk, or at his sword, worn on his back, a clear mark of his profession.

Geralt presses closer to Jaskier.

“Follow my lead,” Jaskier says softly, his voice pitched for wtichers as he leads them both over to the bar.

The barmaid smiles pleasantly at him. “What can I do for you boys?” she asks, giving Jaskier a once over.

Jaskier grins at her. She’s flirting, which is good. “My beautiful lady, might you know if your wonderful establishment is in need of entertainment for the night?” he asks, presenting his lute. “I have a talent for song, you see.”

“Are all your songs as pretty as you speak?” the girls asks, leaning forward.

Jaskier gives her a wink. “I do try, my dear.”

“Then perhaps we might find ourselves in need,” she says.

“Excellent!” Jaskier says, beaming. “Are you the one to speak to about a place to sleep afterwards, and some meals for my friends and I?”

The girl shakes her head. “That would be the boss, right over there,” she says, pointing to a man who’s leaning against one of the pillars in the room. “Tell him Mattie told you to speak with him.”

“Thank you, Mattie,” Jaskier says, kissing the girl’s hand.

Mattie giggles but then takes her hand back, shooing them off.

“That was gross,” Geralt complains. “Why did she buy your stupid lies?”

Jaskier laughs softly. “She didn’t,” he assures him. “But it is nice to pretend, every once in a while, that things are better than they are.”

Geralt makes a thoughtful noise and continues to shuffle along, still mostly held up by Jaskier, until they’ve caught the eye of the man.

“Hello,” Jaskier says, keeping his voice warm and friendly, his body language open. “The lovely Mattie at the bar told me to speak to you about offering you my services tonight.”

“Services?” the man says, raising an eyebrow.

Jaskier presents his lute. “The Bard Jaskier, at your service,” he says, flourishing his hand. Usually, he would bow, for dramatic effect, but he doesn’t want to unstable Geralt, who’s clinging to his doublet.

“A bard, huh? Should be nice, haven’t had much excitement out here in a while.”

Jaskier grins again and clasps his hands together. “Wonderful!” he says. “Now, I do hope you understand, but I must have some sort of compensation, good fellow. I do accept discounts on meals and roof for the night in lieu of coin.”

The man snorts. “You and your friends can each have supper for free,” he says. He’s smiling though, the edges of his mouth soft as he takes in Geralt and Eskel. Then his head tilts. “Is your lad there injured?”

Geralt stiffens and tries to press even closer to Jaskier, ducking his head. Jaskier feels rather than sees Eskel’s hand rest on his back.

“Just a sprain,” Jaskier says. “But a bed would do him much good.”

“Hmm,” the man says. “Go get him settled. We’ll figure out a fair price for the room when you return. Upstairs, second to last on your left. I don’t have anything with more than two beds, so if you all want one, you’ll need two rooms.”

“Two beds will be fine,” Eskel says. His voice is softer than it usually is, and he inclines his head politely. “Thank you, sir.”

Jaskier wonders if perhaps Kaer Morhen did teach their boys manners, and Geralt had simply skipped all those classes.

“I’ll be looking forward to some fun tonight, bard,” he says, clapping Jaskier on the shoulder.

They hobble their way to the stairs, where Jaskier pauses to give Geralt the chance to breathe.

“Want me to carry you?” he offers.

Geralt hesitates, long enough that Eskel just scoops him up.

Geralt makes a startled noise, frowning, even as Eskel strides up the stairs with him.

Jaskier follows, chuckling, following Geralt’s quiet grumbles.

The room, as promised, has two beds, both large enough to be comfortable even for Eskel’s bulk and Jaskier’s height. Eskel’s settles Geralt in one of them, propped up with pillows behind him and under his ankle.

“I do not need so many pillows,” Geralt complains, but Eskel ignores him.

Geralt looks imploring at Jaskier.

“Comfortable?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt crosses his arms. “Yes,” he admits.

“Good,” Jaskier says. “I’ll go back to the innkeeper.”

The innkeeper is sympathetic to Jaskier, offering him more than fair pay, especially given the food and lodging he’s already promised. Jaskier thanks him profusely, but hedges about his offer to get the local healer. He’s still not sure how Geralt would take to the idea of a stranger coming close enough to examine him, or that he would allow it, or that the healer could do anything with Geralt’s witcher’s physique.

He also informs Jaskier that most of the townsfolk come for supper in about two hours, and Jaskier grins, promises again to regale them with song. Mattie, the girl from earlier, slides up to Jaskier and gives him a wink.

“I’m looking forward to your songs, bard,” she says, slipping a bottle of something into Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier grins at her. “I would hate to disappoint a maid fair as you,” he says.

Mattie giggles and slaps him on the arm before he saunters away, swinging her hips as she takes some drinks to a nearby table.

Jaskier steps back, giving the innkeeper one more parting smile, before he hands back up the stairs, hiding whatever contraband Mattie had given him against his hip. Once he’s on the landing, and hidden behind the curve, he takes a good look at it.

It’s wine. Good wine. Touissant wine.

“I come bearing gifts,” he says, grinning, when he walks back into the room.

Geralt is on the bed still, a small miracle, reading a large book that Jaskier recognizes as a witcher bestiary. Eskel is beside him on the floor, meditating, but he looks up when Jaskier comes in.

Jaskier flourishes the wine in his direction. “Care for a drink?”

“You bought us wine?” Eskel asks.

“Mattie gave me wine,” Jaskeir corrects. “Nice wine.”

“I want to try some,” Geralt says immediately.

Jaskier raises his eyebrow at him.

Geralt scoffs. “I have had a drink before,” he says.

“I know,” Jaskier says. “I remember you drinking vodka. But I think wine this wine would be wasted on you. It’s meant to be savored, enjoyed, not chugged down.”

“Just let me try,” Geralt insists.

Jaskier sighs dramatically, but opens the bottle while Eskel rummages around in their packs for drinking cups.

“Here,” he says, pouring some for Geralt.

Geralt grins as he takes the cup, looking pleased with himself for having talked Jaskier into something. He takes a sip, and immediately wrinkles his nose.

“This is sweet,” he says.

“It is,” Jaskier says.

Geralt frowns and takes another small sip.

“Do you like it?” Jaskier asks.

“No,” Geralt says decisively, handing his cup to Jaskier.

Jaskier laughs. “More for me and Eskel then,” he says.

“Do I like wine?” Geralt asks. “When I am older.”

“No,” Jaskier says, smiling. “Too sweet for you.”

“So picky, Geralt,” Eskel says, taking a swig of his own wine. “Alcohol is alcohol.”

“It is not though,” Geralt points out. “That is not strong enough to get a witcher drunk.”

“Mm,” Eskel agrees, “but it can make things feel a little nicer.”

“Have you ever been drunk?” Jaskier asks. “I’ve never seen Geralt drunk.”

“Oh, yeah,” Eskel says. “There’s witcher stuff, it’s strong. Probably enough to kill you. Geral must travel with some, we use it in potions too.”

“That stuff that smells like death?” Jaskier asks. “Geralt told me never to mess with it, not that I would want to.”

“Yeah, that’s the stuff,” Eskel says, grinning. “You should get him drunk though, Geralt’s fun.”

“I am?” Geralt asks.

“So many stories to tell,” Eskel says. “If you ever want to see Geralt get nice, bard, ply him with white gull first.”

“I am already nice,” Geralt retorts.

“Nah, you are very surly when you get older,” Eskel says. “Right, Jaskier?”

“Very broody,” Jaskier agrees, taking another sip of the wine. Geralt may not appreciate how smooth it is, how the florals and the fruit mix together on the palate, but Jaskier does. He sits next to Geralt on the bed, on his un-injured side, and nudges him. “But I’ve never minded.”

Geralt nudges him back.

“What are you reading?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt’s face lights up as he starts explaining the monsters he was reading about, telling Jaskier what he’s learned from already at Kaer Morhen, and what the book says. There’s notes scrawled in the margins of the book, sentences crossed out and corrected, in a hand Jaskier recognizes as Geralt’s own.

“I’ve fought some of these,” Geralt says, a kind of wonder in his voice.

“You have,” Jaskier agrees. “It’s always impressive, thought it also seems to involve lots of blood and frequently guts.”

Geralt just shrugs. “Sometimes the guts are useful,” he points out. “Like here,” he says, pointing to a paragraph. “You can make antivenom out of venom, sometimes. Or sell it to mages. It can be useful when diluted. Drowner brains have healing properties, did you know?”

“Yes, actually,” Jaskier says. “Helped you harvest some a few times.”

“You did?” Geralt says, sounding surprised. “It was not…unpleasant?”

“Oh, it was very unpleasant. But the swamp was unpleasant already, and faster work makes for quicker relief of land that’s dry.”

Geralt smiles, just a little.

“Maybe I ought to get myself a bard,” Eskel says, his tone teasing. “Someone to do all my dirty work for me.”

“Sorry, but I am one of a kind,” Jaskier says, leaning back against the headboard.

“That’s for sure,” Geralt mutters, and Jaskier shoves him gently.

“So rude. Just for that, I shan’t tell you the story about the time you fought a striga,” Jaskier threatens.

“A striga? Really?” Geralt asks. “Please tell me.”

Jaskier hums as if considering.

Geralt pinches him.

“Alright, alright,” Jaskier relents. “Now, you must be kind to me. I had to get this story second-hand, and getting details out of you, my friend, is no easy feat.”

It’s easy to pass the time like this. Geralt is an eager audience, even if he interrupts with questions, pressing Jaskier for details he doesn’t know. It’s the most animated Jaskier has seen him recently, and it makes it easier to be animated back, to relax into the bed and the stories. Eskel chimes in with a few of his own stories, including an encounter with a succubus that Jaskier can tell he’s leaving a lot out of. The clamor of the tavern beneath them grows steadily, a growing, hungry crowd.

“Shall we go down?” Eskel asks. “You must be hungry, little wolf.”

“I am fine,” Geralt protests automatically.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Well, _I_ am hungry,” he says, standing and stretching. “Shall we go, Eskel? Geralt can stay here by himself then.”

Geralt sighs. “Why must you be so dramatic?” he asks. “I will go with you.”

Eskel carries him down the stairs, but once they’re in view of other people, Geralt insists on using Eskel as a crutch and walking on his own.

Jaskier’s follows them to a free table, catching the eye of Mattie again, from across the room.

He gives her a grin and mouths, “Thank you,” as he puts his hand on his hip. “Shall I get us drinks?” he offers.

“Wine not enough for you bard?”

Jaskier shrugs. It’s not like they’d drunk the whole bottle, opting to save some for later. “Is that a no?”

“Definitely not,” Eskel laughs.

Jaskier mocks a salute his way before heading for the bar, intending on beer for the three of them. The truth is he likes to drink a little before a set, both to loosen himself and to make sure his mouth isn’t too dry to sing.

He’s only there for a few moments before Mattie slides up next to him.

“Hello again,” Jaskier says, grinning at her.

“More alcohol?” she asks, eyes sparkling. “Was my gift not enough?”

“Not at all,” Jaskier assures her. “But you can’t have too much of a good thing all at once.” He winks at her. It would be easy, so easy to offer to show her his appreciation, to wait until after his set and her shift, to flirt throughout, to follow her to her lodgings and spend the night between her legs. It’s been a long time, and Mattie is attractive and bold.

And maybe, if things were different, he would. He might even invite Geralt to come with him, Mattie seems like the adventurous sort. But he knows he can’t. He doesn’t _want_ to. Geralt is here, waiting for Jaskier to come back to him. He’s injured, hurting inside and out, and he’s placed his trust in Jaskier. There’s nothing in Jaskier that is capable of betraying that for any reason. He wouldn’t betray it under torture, under any kind of duress, and he won’t do it now.

“What about later tonight?” Mattie asks, the way she looks Jaskier up and down leaving no doubt to her meaning.

“My lovely Mattie, I wish I could,” Jaskier says. He’s never been good at turning people down, doesn’t have that much practice at it, to be honest.

Mattie frowns.

“I am sorry,” Jaskier assures. “If my situation were different, I would,” he says. “You are lovely.”

Mattie’s still frowning. “Are you taken?” she asks, looking angrier.

Jaskier shakes his head. “No…I…” He hesitates. There’s no real way to explain that his current partner has recently been cursed to be a child, and that he’s hurt, and that he’s emotionally dependent on Jaskier. “The boy I came in with,” he says, carefully avoiding Geralt’s name. It won’t do, if Jaskier is about to sing about him. “He’s injured. And he’s just suffered a large loss. I wouldn’t feel right leaving him, even for a night.”

Mattie smiles gently. “I understand,” she says. She lays her hand on Jaskier’s arm. “I am sorry for your loss, and your boy’s.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says.

“I do hope the wine helps,” Mattie says before she leaves.

It takes Jaskier a few awkward seconds to realizes that she must have assumed that Geralt’s mother had recently passed away. Well. Jaskier hadn’t technically lied.

“Hey.”

A tap at his shoulder makes Jaskier jump.

It’s just Eskel though, looking at him strangely.

“Yes?” Jaskier asks, turning and smiling. He’s aware that he’s slipped back into his using his flirty mannerisms by default, but he can’t be bothered to change them.

Eskel doesn’t seem to notice, or mind. “If you wanted to… _go_ with her, that’s alright. I’ve got the kid.”

“‘Go with?’” Jaskier repeats. “What – oh,” he says, realizing what Eskel is getting at. The thought makes him feel warm, almost embarrassed to be caught flirting, something he hasn’t felt since he was young and fumbling at Oxenfurt. “Oh, no, it’s quite alright. Flirting is fun, and it’s been a while since I’ve indulged in it, have to make sure my charm hasn’t faded.” He throws in a wink for good measure.

Eskel’s serious expression doesn’t change. “I’m just saying. If you have needs…it’s fine.”

Jaskier laughs, lightly, making sure it isn’t mean. “That’s sweet of you,” he says, “but unnecessary. I do like sex, I won’t lie, and I’ve had quite a lot of it quite often. But I’m not going to dump Geralt for the night for it. He’d be upset if I were gone, you know it. He’d try to hide it, but he’s not very good at it yet.”

“Mm,” Eskel says quietly in agreement. “Alright then.”

He lets the subject drop and Jaskier is grateful for it. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about or desired sex at all these past weeks, and it’s not that he and Geralt are even exclusive, but the desire for anyone else right now barely extends beyond the superficial. As is usual with Geralt around, he’d much rather spend time with him, even if he currently is a child, looking at them curiously from his table across the room.

Jaskier groans quietly, thinking about witcher hearing. “Shit, none of that was loud enough for him to hear, right?” he asks Eskel. He has no idea what Kaer Morhen might have taught him about sex already, and he definitely doesn’t want to have to talk to him about it.

Eskel laughs. “Not with all this background noise,” he says, gesturing to the chattering, dining crowd around them. “He’s still getting used to his hearing, can’t filter it all out yet.”

“Has he said something?” Jaskier asks, taken aback. He had wondered if the noise had been painful for Geralt, but the boy hasn’t said anything.

Eskel shakes his head. “I just…remember. It takes a long time to get used to.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “Well, I’ll just have to sing clearly for him.”

He’ll play once the dinner clatter settles down, so for now he follows Eskel back to their table.

“What were you talking about?” Geralt asks immediately.

“Nothing, little wolf,” Eskel says. “You can eavesdrop when you’re older.”

Geralt frowns at him. “Fine then,” he says.

“Hush, I even got you a drink,” Jaskier says, sliding Geralt his small beer.

Geralt turn his frown on him. “You always get me this,” he points out. He’s right, whenever they do make stops Jaskier makes a point of getting Geralt something to drink as well as himself.

“Yes, well, you can have whatever remains of my ale when I go to play as well,” Jaskier tells him.

“Hm,” Geralt says, but he doesn’t complain any further. He’s quiet, eyes darting around the tavern, his pupils wide enough in the dim that the gold is less noticeable. He looks up at Jaskier when he stands, head tilted.

“Time to earn us that food,” Jaskier says with a wink.

Geralt hums at him, but Eskel says, “Break a leg.”

Geralt turns to him. “Why would Jaskier break his leg?” he asks. “Then we would both be injured.”

Jaskier’s laughs, as Eskel tries to explain the figure of speech, and he heads to the center of the room. The dinner clatter has started to die down, people subdued by bellies full of drink and food, and several of them turn to him.

“Hello!” Jaskier greets, raising his arms grandly. “My name is Jaskier, the bard.”

A few people clap.

“Hey, you’re the witcher bard!” one man yells. “Play one of your witcher songs!”

Jaskier grins his way.

“Of course, good sir,” he says, starting _Toss A Coin_. He says a quiet apology to Geralt, who’s face is most likely burning. But it’s a popular song, and people always toss him a few extra coins as a joke, so it’s worth playing. He keeps the set lively and energetic, nothing too intense or dirty, because Geralt’s isn’t the only child’s face he sees in the crowd. He stays away from anything too sad as well, no tragic love songs, just those about pretty maidens and the handsome men who love them.

He always makes an effort to sing the lyrics of love at someone, no matter who, and one nice girl leans up and gives him a kiss on his cheek when he sings to her, and Jaskier gives her a wink in return. She giggles, but she also slips a heavy handful of coins into the bag he wears on his belt. He makes sure to sing to Mattie too, giving her a smile and blowing her a kiss. She smiles at him and waves her hand, and Jaskier is satisfied that he’s been forgiven. He plays until his voice starts to tire and his fingers start to ache, at which point he takes a bow. As usual, people come up to him afterwards, talking, flirting, pressing coins and drinks into his hands, so it takes a while before he actually gets back to the table where he’s left his witchers.

They’re still there, and Geralt is face is visibly red even in the dim light, even to Jaskier’s eyes, and he’s scowling, looking angry in a very confused kind of way. Eskel is chuckling still, and Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him.

“Geralt is annoyed that you were paying attention to other people for once,” Eskel says, grinning.

“Shut up!” Geralt shrieks, reaction fast and furious. “I’ll break your jaw!”

Eskel just laughs again. “He’s jealous-”

Geralt shrieks again, launching himself across the bench to tackle Eskel down, his fists flying.

Eskel catches him easily, falling back on the bench and batting Geralt’s furious hands away from his face. It’s not a very long fight: Eskel simply wraps one big hand around Geralt’s skinny wrists and stills him.

Geralt snarls and yanks himself away, stomping his way up the stairs and to their room as best he can with his limp.

Eskel laughs again. “Ah, young love,” he sighs dramatically.

“Young love?” Jaskier asks. Part of him wants to go after Geralt, but he trusts that Eskel’s witcher ears will catch anything should it go wrong, and he wants to know why he’s in such pique.

Eskel grins at him. “Geralt has a _crush_ on you,” he says. “His first crush.” He puts a hand dramatically over his heart. “Our little boy is growing up.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, his mind racing. The idea of Geralt, this young and vulnerable, having a crush on him is adorable to say the least. Jaskier remembers what it had been like, a child, and desperately in love with the son of one of the ladies who used to come and visit his mother. He remembers how his heart had beaten faster, how much he’d wanted to spend time alone, how he wanted to sit closer, to hold his hand, to share interests. The boy, Janek, had been interested in calvary, and wanted to be a knight because he wanted to fight on horseback. Jaskier had promised to come see him joust, in all the earnestness of childhood. He remembers too the pretty older daughter of their baron, with her curls and her sweet smile. She had been a fair bit older than Jaskier, and already betrothed, of course, but none of that had stopped Jaskier’s heart from thumping harder in his chest, or stopped the swoop of his stomach when she smiled at him.

The idea that Geralt feels the same way about him is charming, and it warms Jaskier’s heart. But it’s also a bit strange, given his actual relationship with Geralt as an adult. “I guess that does make sense,” he says aloud. “I assume he had one as an adult as well,” he muses.

“Really?” Eskel says, leaning in. His eyes glitter in the light, mischief and interest.

“Geralt and I are…bedding each other,” Jaskier says. “When he’s not nine.” He’s never sure what to call Geralt or how to describe their relationship, how they’ll go their separate ways but always end up together, how they’ll bed other people, but prefer one another, how they travel together and Jaskier sings and Geralt hunts and at night they lay down together. Geralt’s not big on talking, and Jaskier doesn’t feel the need to press him, not about this.

Eskel looks at him thoughtfully. “It’s not just fucking though, is it?” he asks.

“No,” Jaskier says quietly.

“This must be hard for you,” Eskel says.

Jaskier shrugs. “I do still care for him. Differently now, of course, but still.”

Eskel grins at him. “I’m glad,” he says. “I told you before. I’ve known Geralt for a long time. We’ve always been close. And he’s never been good at allowing himself to have and keep things that he likes. But you seem stubborn enough to stick around him.”

Jaskier nods. “I am.”

Eskel claps him on the shoulder and shakes him a bit. It’s very manly and brotherly, and Jaskier smiles.

“I’m gonna go after Geralt,” he says. “See if he can stand to look at me.”

Eskel laughs. “Good luck, Jaskier,” he says. “Don’t let the little wolf bite.”

Jaskier grins at him and heads upstairs after Geralt. He hasn’t bothered lighting any of the candles in the room, but through the light of the moon through the window Jaskier can see his tight form curled up on the bed. “Geralt?” he calls softly.

Geralt just grunts at him.

Jaskier sets his lute down by the door and goes to sit on the bed next to him. “I talked to Eskel,” he says.

Geralt somehow gets tenser. “What did he say?” he asks, sounding carefully not scared.

“Just that he’d been teasing you,” Jaskier says. There’s no reason to embarrass him further, after all. “He’s sorry he upset you.” Eskel hasn’t said anything like that, but Jaskier thinks that it’s not beyond the realm of imagination.

Geralt snorts though. “Liar,” he grumbles, but it’s not mean.

“Well, I’m sure he is, deep down,” Jaskier tries.

“Eskel says stupid shit all the time,” Geralt says. Then he sighs and rolls over.

Jaskier smiles at him, sure Geralt can make it out.

“Eskel has no need to be sorry,” Geralt says. “I am just…being irrational.”

“He embarrassed you, it’s alright,” Jaskier says.

“Witchers shouldn’t-”

“Have feelings to be embarrassed about having? I don’t believe that. Eskel very clearly has feelings of his own, so you’re not the only witcher with emotions,” Jaskier interrupts. “I bet you all have them, just centuries of repression makes those teachers of yours better at hiding it.”

“You don’t know,” Geralt says. “What it is like there.”

“No,” Jaskier admits. “But I know what it’s like with _you_. And I like it.”

Geralt shifts a little closer.

“Are you tired?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt shrugs nonchalantly.

“Would you like me to sing something?” Jaskier offers.

“You were just singing,” Geralt points out.

“I know,” Jaskier says. “But I could sing a little more, just for you.”

“You don’t have to,” Geralt grumbles, code for permission.

Jaskier smiles. “Have to has nothing to do with it, little wolf,” he says.

Geralt rolls his eyes at the nickname, but he shifts, sitting. He lets Jaskier help him settle in for bed with no complaints, propping up his ankle before settling himself on the bed beside him. Geralt presses his head against Jaskier’s arm briefly before pulling back, giving him room to strum.

Jaskier smiles at him and starts to play. A private little concert for his witcher.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in town

The extent to which a single day and night of rest have on the healing of Geralt’s ankle is remarkable. When he wakes in the morning to find Geralt’s ankle looking like normal, Jaskier immediately declares that they’re staying at least one more day.

Geralt grumbles, of course, making noises about holding them up, and how he doesn’t need rest, he is a witcher after all, but Jaskier ignores him and goes to talk to the innkeeper about keeping their room for another night. The innkeeper agrees immediately, and in the end they agree on two more nights, so long as Jaskier agrees to play during both of them. Apparently, last night was the best business they’d had in a while, and the innkeeper is sure with some advertisement that the next two will be even better.

Jaskier grins and plays it up, pleased at the attention and the praise, not trying to hide it. He knows that he must looked puffed up when he gets back to their room, because Eskel laughs and Geralt frowns.

“Find a pretty lady?” Eskel asks.

Geralt’s frown abruptly turns murderous.

“A man, actually,” Jaksier says, playing along and winking.

Geralt looks like he’s about to growl.

“A very handsome man who offered us this room for two more nights, for a small, discounted fee,” Jaskier continues.

Geralt huffs. “Did you flirt with the innkeeper?” he accuses, crossing his arms. “You did not have to. I am alright to continue travelling.”

“But you will be _better_ to in a few days,” Jaskier points out. “Besides, I could use the rest as well, and the coin from my performances.”

Geralt continues to frown, a stubborn look on his face.

“And I’ll see if I can’t find a contract nearby,” Eskel says.

“And I am supposed to sit here?” Geralt asks.

Eskel shrugs. “Healing is work,” he says. “You’re not wasting time like you think.”

“I know it’s boring,” Jaskier says. As a child, he too had hated being confined, still does. He had always been squirming, getting up, moving around, much to the chagrin of his tutors and parents. He knows that Geralt is the same way, even human walking speed seems to be too slow for him sometimes. Being confined to a bed must be frustrating.

Geralt shrugs and looks away, which isn’t what Jaskier had expected. He doesn’t say anymore.

Jaskier sighs and sprawls across the spare half of the mattress that had been his last night. “Perhaps I shall keep you company, dear Geralt,” he says.

Geralt makes an annoyed noise and pokes him in the head. “You do not have to,” he says.

“Maybe I want to,” Jaskier counters. “Opportunities to be lazy in bed all day are so rare when one travels with a witcher.”

Geralt sighs heavily.

“And I can entertain you if you are bored,” Jaskier continues. “Entertaining is my job, afterall.”

“You do not have to,” Geralt says again, though this time it’s in tones that suggest he’d rather Jaskier not.

Jaskier laughs. “You are no fun, Geralt,” he accuses lightheartedly.

Eskel starts laughing. “Somehow that’s not quite how I remember you being at this age,” he says. “I seem to remember a certain someone stealing all of Vesemir’s small clothes while he was busy teaching.

Jaskier starts laughing too. “A little thief, were you?” he asks, tugging on Geralt’s ponytail.

“I did not steal them,” Geralt protests, batting at Jaskier’s hand. “I hid them.”

Jaskier snorts.

“In the baths,” Eskel points out.

Jaskier laughs harder. “Was he terribly angry?” he asks.

“Furious,” Eskel confirms. “Tanned his hide and gave him two days to clean the keep.”

“Only the halls,” Geralt corrects.

“Yes, the large halls, built for containing several hundred witchers,” Eskel agrees. “The meeting hall, the dining hall, and the entrance hall.”

Geralt shrugs. “I managed,” he says.

“Only because I snuck out of bed and helped you,” Eskel says. “Always getting into more trouble than you can handle, little wolf.”

Geralt huffs.

Jaskier laughs and tugs at Geralt’s hair again. “I never pictured you as such a troublemaker,” he says.

“No?” Eskel asks. “The way he ignores everyone else’s norms and rules wasn’t clue enough?”

“I thought it was part of his mysterious, wild loner act,” Jaskier says. “The mysterious witcher, above our petty human rules.”

Geralt pokes at his head. “I would not think that,” he says. “I am not…better for being a witcher. It is…the opposite.”

Eskel goes quiet at that, his mood shifting.

“That’s not true,” Jaskier says firmly. “You both know that, right?”

Neither Eskel nor Geralt respond.

Jaskier takes Geralt’s hair in his hand again and starts running his fingers through the curls, needing to touch. “It is not,” he says. “You are not lesser than. You are not a monster. I’ve done a lot of convincing when you’re an adult, you know.”

“Do I believe you?” Geralt asks, his voice small and quiet.

“I’m not sure,” Jaskier admits. “I hope you are coming around. But then you’ll say things or frown at your reflection…” He sighs. “I care about you a great deal, Geralt, I simply want you to care about yourself.”

“I…care about you too,” Geralt admits, looking intensely at his hands in his lap.

Jaskier beams. “I knew it,” he says, unable to resist teasing. “You do find me amusing, and my singing pleasing, and my presence valuable.”

“I would not go that far,” Geralt says, a little smirk on his face, and Jaskier pinches his ear.

“You wound my heart, Geralt,” he says, sighing dramatically. “Eskel, has he always been so rude?”

“Always,” Eskel confirms. “It seems to be incurable.”

Geralt huffs at him.

“Tragic,” Jaskier sighs.

Geralt huffs again. “Stop teasing me,” he says.

“But it’s so _fun_ ,” Jaskier protests.

“Shall I leave you two alone?” Eskel asks, his voice sing-song.

Geralt flushes red immediately, a choked noise in his throat. “Shut up!” he shouts, his voice cracking.

Eskel puts his hand over his mouth to cover his laughter. “What did I say?” he says, innocence extremely non-convincing.

Geralt tries to growl, but his voice is high with both youth and stress and it comes out as a kind of screech. “You are the _worst_ ,” he says emphatically. “Leave me alone!” He grabs a pillow from behind him and throws it at Eskel.

Eskel snatches it out of the air and throws it back, putting his weight behind the throw. It takes Geralt by surprise and he makes another muffled sound of outrage against the pillow when it hits him in the face.

“Get out,” Geralt says again, scowling as he angrily stuffs the pillow behind him.

“Alright, alright,” Eskel says. “Come, Jaskier, let us give Geralt some space.”

Geralt grumbles something unintelligible, crossing his arms, and glaring at his lap.

“I’ll bring you something from town,” Jaskier promises him, patting his head.

Geralt scowls at the treatment, but he doesn’t yell at Jaskier.

“Shout if you need something,” Eskel tells Geralt from the doorway. “I’ll hear you.”

“I will be fine,” Geralt says.

Jaskier smiles at him before he closes the door behind himself and Eskel.

“It’s good,” Eskel says, as they walk out of the inn. They’ve slept in a bit, and the breakfast crowd has mostly cleared out, heading for their livelihoods.

“What’s good?”

“Good for Geralt to have you around.” Eskel claps Jaskier on the back. “He takes himself too seriously. Needs someone to lighten him up a bit.”

Jaskier smiles.

Geralt’s seriousness had been one of the first things Jaskier had noticed about him. He knew that he had opened himself up to many a possible response with his terrible opening line, and his open-ended request, but instead Geralt had chosen to critique his monster lore. Geralt takes himself and his job seriously, deadly serious, Jaskier had teased once. Geralt had pointed out that it _was_ often a matter of life and death and Jaskier had tased him about proving his point. But he never seems angered by Jaskier’s attempts at levity, so when Jaskier thinks about it, a secret past as a troublemaker doesn’t surprise him a great deal. “I try,” he tells Eskel. Maybe one day I will even get him to smile.”

“He does, sometimes,” Eskel says. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Jaskier laughs. “I’ve gotten a smirk once or twice. Encourages me.”

“A smirk is good progress,” Eskel agrees.

They step outside into the flow of people down the little dirt road of the town.

“Okay on your own, little bard?” Eskel asks.

Jaskier nods. “I am an adult,” he says. “I can handle a town by myself.”

“Scream if you find trouble,” Eskel says, clapping him on the shoulder. He makes for the message board standing tall in the distance of the town square.

Jaskier wanders aimlessly, looking for whatever catches his eye. He notes a few places as he wanders, a tailor’s with a colorful display in the window, a bakery with delicious sugar smells drifting outside, a shop he could find backup lute strings in, but he first he wanders into a bookseller’s.

The place is well lit by the front windows, though the crowding shelves cast shadows on the ground. The small immediately transports Jaskier back to Oxenfurt, to the libraries with their books and scrolls that he had poured over, trying to imprint their contents on his memory.

“Can I help you find anything?” the shopkeeper asks. Rather appropriately, he’s sitting behind a counter with a a book open in his lap.

Jaskier smiles at him. “No, good sir, just browsing.”

The man nods. “Let me know if you do,” he says, before returning to his book.

Jaskier does wander, looking at the shelves. He’d come in on a whim – books aren’t something he usually carries with him, a lot of weight and space for not much return, but he knows that Geralt carries a few, has seen him reading them more than once. One is his bestiary, but the others Jaskier isn’t sure about. He’d asked Geralt about them, the first time he’d seen them, early on in their acquaintance, but Geralt had simply gone quiet and shoved the book back in his pack. Jaskier had teased him about hiding behind dirty novels, but he doesn’t actually think that Geralt keeps a book of porn as one of the few things he chooses to carry with him. But with the boy laid up for a while, Jaskier thinks he might like something new, and this young, there’s more a chance he’ll pick something Geralt’s never come across before.

He’s not sure what Geralt will like though. He’s sure that Geralt will read anything his picks, and will say that his enjoyment of the book doesn’t matter, but Jaskier wants to get him something he’ll like. But Geralt, as a child and as an adult, isn’t very very open about his preferences. Jaskier knows that he gets the most animated when discussing monsters, but anything Jaskier is like to find in this shop will definitely be less accurate than Geralt’s own bestiary, which will only annoy him. He knows better than to get Geralt anything made for ordinary children, tales and bales that even Jaskier had known to be made-up long before meeting Geralt. He doesn’t want to get him anything about magic or mages, given Geralt’s reactions to the real things.

He’s going through more grounded tales, and thinks about dismissing anything as mundane as stories of knights and princesses, before he stops and reconsiders. Geralt doesn’t normally care much for the upper class, and he dislikes being reminded of his own prince or princess, waiting for him in Cintra. But Jaskier finds himself wondering if Geralt at his age has ever heard such a story. It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing the masters of Kaer Morhen would tell their boys.

Jaskier flips through a few of the books before he finds one with prose which he deems decent enough. He doesn’t think it likely that Geralt would care about such things, and Jaskier himself is more of a verse expect, but still, he wants to get Geralt good book, and that requires writing that doesn’t make Jaskier want to imitate his tutors and start clicking his tongue.

Jaskier pays the shopkeeper for the book and declines his offer to wrap it for him. The man looks delighted to settle back down with his own book. Jaskier wonders if he’s actually used to customers.

Book in hard, or well, under his arm, Jaskier heads back into the town. He haggles a bit with the lady running the supplies store, but she agrees to have a set of strings ready for Jaskier to string and clip by the next morning for a reasonable price. The tailor is next, and the younger man looks delighted when he sees Jaskier come in, probably anticipating that he’ll purchase something flashy and expensive.

Jaskier would love to, but he’s come here for a different purpose. “Hello!” he says, with a grin, which he hopes will soften the blow. “Do you perchance have any children’s trousers?”

As predicted, the man’s face falls. To his credit, he covers it quickly and the smile he produces looks and feels genuine all the same. “We do,” he confirms.

“Excellent!” Jaskier says. “I’ve been traveling with my nephew, and I could not have know how quickly children seem to run through clothes.” He does remember being young, and how his mother and his servants would scold him for soiling his clothes running around and climbing whatever he could. But Geralt tells Jaskier the same thing now, and Jaskier had assumed it had been a lack of adventurous structural integrity in his choice of clothing.

At the world “nephew” the tailor seems to perk up again. “Boys always find trouble,” he says. He takes a second to look Jaskier up and down.

Like Mattie the previous night, in another world, Jaskier would be interested. The tailor is cute, and flirtatious, and looks like he would be fun in bed, all of which Jaskier likes. But he’s here for Geralt once again, and the boy desperate needs some new pants after the nekkers had ripped his apart. “I wish he could find a little less,” Jaskier says, keeping his eyes firmly on the tailor’s face, so as to not give the wrong impression. “Alas, I must spend my coin on a pair of replacement trousers, and perhaps a backup? Instead of one of your wonderful eye-catching displays.”

The tailor once again looks disappointed, but covers it well. “Do you have the boy’s measurements?” he asks.

Jaskier does. He hasn’t measured Geralt yet, as an adult or as a child, because while he’s reasonably sure Geralt would go along with it, he also knows that Geralt would complain the whole time about it being a waste. But Jaskier has a good eye, and knows to round up and how to take in clothes that are too large. It’s well worth it, to occasionally see Geralt is something other than his all black ensemble, sexy as it may be. It hasn’t escaped Jaskier’s notice that _Eskel_ wears a red jacket with bright spots of yellow.

He ends up getting Geralt two pairs of pants, a sturdy pair for traveling and a lighter pair for lounging. The tailor promises to have them by midday the next day, and Jaskier thanks him, resisting a wink, not wanting to give the wrong impression.

Jaskier’s left the bakery for his last stop on purpose. He wants the treats to be fresh for Geralt. He remembers how delighted Geralt had been when Eskel had brought him one, and the way that as an adult Geralt will never waste coin on such comfort, but will let Jaskier feed him bites of ones he buys for himself.

The smells are still tantalizing and there’s a bit of a crowd inside. Many of them are parents with chattering children clinging to them and pointing, pleading for something sweet. Jaskier himself is quite tempted by many things. Fresh loaves of bread, cookies that are still warm, soft, sweet smelling buns. He ends up asking for half a dozen of the buns, drizzled in honey and lightly spiced, figuring that two witchers should be able to make short work of them. He also makes a mental note to return before they leave for a loaf of bread. It will soon grow stale and hard on the road, but at least they’ll have a few days of something warm and fresh for a change.

The baker’s assistant gives him basket and a pretty smile, despite the rush, and Jaskier slips her a coin for it. The basket on his arm and the book tucked under his arm, Jaskier winds his way back to the inn and back to Geralt.

Geralt is, thankfully, just where they’d left him. In bed, his ankle propped up, muttering to himself as he flips through the bestiary. “Hey, there,” Jaskier says, closing the door behind him.

“Hello, Jaskier,” Geralt says, setting the bestiary aside. His voice is warmer, more excited than it would have been when Jaskier had first started traveling with him, either as an adult or as a child.

Jaskier smiles at him. “I got you something,” he says. He’s never been good about delaying gifts and surprises that he’s excited about.

“You do?” Geralt asks. He sits up a bit straighter and locks onto Jaskier, analyzing the basket and the package. Then he seems to simmer down a bit and says, “You did not have to get me anything.”

Jaskier refrains from rolling his eyes. Geralt always says so, whenever Jaskier replenishes his potion ingredients, or sneaks him fine food, or finds him a new Gwent card. Jaskier usually just hums and ignores him, or points out the gift has already been gotten and received, and that it would foolish not to accept it.

But now he knows Geralt craves a gentler touch, even if it won’t admit it to himself. “I know,” Jaskier says instead, making sure to still be smiling. “But I wanted to.”

Geralt frowns a little at him, like he’s trying to figure out why Jaskier would want to do such a thing.

Jaskier takes a seat on the end of the bed, on the side opposite Geralt’s injured leg. He places the basket of buns on the ground and hands Geralt the book. “Here,” he says.

Geralt takes the package with gentle, careful hands and unwraps it methodically.

It makes Jaskier smile.

Geralt takes the book out of the wrapping and gently runs his hands down the cover, inspecting it. He thumbs a few pages and turns the book over a few times before he looks back up at Jaskier. “This is for me?” he asks, his brow pinched the way it gets as he puzzles over things.

“Yes,” Jaskier says easily, giving Geralt time to process. It’s just now occurred to him that Geralt may not have ever received a gift before, of any kind. “It’s a fiction book,” he continues, when the silence grows, taking pressure off of Geralt to respond. “Just a simple, likely silly story. But I read a bit of it in the store, and the writer does seem to know what they were doing.”

“It is about a…knight?” Geralt asks, clearly still working something over in his brain.

“And a princess.”

Geralt strokes his finger gently over a line of ink. He swallows heavily. “How…did you know? Or did I tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Jaskier says, keeping his voice easy and soft, sensing Geralt’s distress and wanting to calm it.

“I was…interested in knights,” Geralt says, like it’s a painful admission. Maybe it is. “When I was younger.”

Jaskier wants to point out that Geralt is still young, but stops himself a second before he speaks. “Younger” he thinks is code. Code for “before I became a witcher and had all my dreams torn from me.”

“You’ve never told me,” Jaskier says. “But I’ve…guessed. You’re very chivalrous you know. And you have your own sort of honor code. And you do do things like this knight here does. Rescue princesses, children who need your help, even it’s just reassurances from their own imagination. You’re a protector, and you go out of your way to be. So. I guessed.”

Geralt looks at him, his eyes intense and wide. He makes a little gasping sound in his throat and shifts closer, pressing his face into Jaskier’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around him. He does say anything, but Jaskier strokes up his spine.

Well Geralt pulls back, he looks more composed. “Thank you, Jaskier,” he says quietly.

“Of course, Geralt,” Jaskier says, combing his fingers through the boy’s ponytail. “The book is not my only gift you know,” he adds. “I also brought breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” Geralt repeats.

Jaskier nods and hands him the basket. “Not as exciting as a book, I know.”

Geralt inhales, and then smiles a small smile. “These smell good,” he says.

Jaskier beams at him. The smells from the bakery had been enough to entice him, and he had hoped that they would be pleasant to the witchers’ sensitive noses as well. He’s pleased to find that he was right. “Help yourself,” he says. “Though we ought to leave at least one for Eskel.” He grins at Geralt.

“In bed?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier hesitates. It’s one of those moments where he’s not sure exactly what answer Geralt is looking for. “If you want,” he says.

“If it is alright,” Geralt says.

“Well, I say that it is,” Jaskier says. “And I’m the adult.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “A very silly one,” he says, taking a bun, biting into it to hide his smirk.

“Brat,” Jaskier says, affectionately. He takes a bun, internally congratulating himself on his choice when the soft bun melts in his mouth, bringing a burst of flavor over his tongue.

Geralt smiles briefly in between bites, but Jaskier doesn’t call him out on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a twitter account now if you wanted to chat, or keep up with updates for all my fic! @mrhdfic on twitter! And I have a predicted chapter total count!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's ability to stay out of trouble runs out.

Eskel returns with the prospect of a contract a bit farther North. Travelers have been fleeng that village for the one they’re currently in, telling of ghostly shrieks haunting their nights.

“Probably wraiths,” Geralt suggests, and he looks quietly pleased with himself when Eskel agrees.

The next day the three of them head out, Geralt and Eskel readying the horses while Jaskier picks up the purchases he’d ordered. Then, with lute strings, new pants for Geralt, and fresh bread under his arms he heads back.

By the time Jaskeir gets back Roach and Scorpion are both already outfitted and ready to go, Geralt leaning against Eskel’s side as they wait.

“Sorry for the delay,” he says.

Geralt shrugs and Eskel says, “No trouble, bard. Besides, it looks like you brought presents.”

Jaskier nods and hands over the bread to Eskel. “Something fresh, at least for a day or two.”

While Eskel adds it to their other food supplies, Jaskier hands Geralt the second package. “Not as fun as my last gift I’m afraid,” he says. “This is something practical.”

“Practical is smart,” Geralt says, thumbing through the folds in the bundle. “Clothes?”

Jaskier nods. “I figured you needed some pants that hadn’t gotten into a fight with a nekker.”

“I thought that ripped pants were the new fashion,” Eskel says with a grin, swinging up onto Scorpion.

“Maybe a hundred years ago,” Jaskier says, scoffing. He angels himself so Geralt is hidden behind his body as he changes, and can also hang onto his arm. Jaskier only reaches down to help when Geralt wobbles trying to balance on his bad ankle. “Fashion changes over time,” he continues. “How long have you been wearing that, witcher.”

“Only a few years,” Eskel says. “Last jacket got eaten by a griffin.”

Jaskier snorts. “I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason Geralt ever changes his clothes too.”

Geralt huffs at him, now dressed once more. “I am sure I change clothes more than that,” he says, placing himself in Jaskier’s hands to be lifted onto Roach. Jaskier marvels at how easily he lends himself to it now. “It would be unhygienic otherwise.”

Jaskier laughs. “Geralt, I have seen you sleep in the dirt, eat uncooked meat, and literally mark our territory to keep a pack of wolves at bay. You are not the most hygienic person on the continent,” he says, swinging up behind him onto Roach.

Eskel laughs too.

Geralt’s head is faced towards him, and Jaskier can see his nose wrinkle.

Jaskier leads Roach out on the road after Scorpion and tugs on Geralt’s ponytail a little. “It’s hard to come across baths on the path,” he says. “But you’re actually quiet fastidious about it when you have the opportunity to be.”

Geralt hums softly, clearly thinking. It’s must be so different, Jaskier thinks, from the life Geralt is used to know, with a roof over his head every night, interaction with teachers and trainers and the other boys, communal meals and baths. He doesn’t know what Kaer Morhen is like, exactly, but he can infer, and he’s sure that it’s wildly different from the lonely life Geralt leads on the road.

Geralt does say much more, though Jaskier can’t quiet tell if he’s lost in thought or simply quiet. He doesn’t seem upset at any rate, and when they break for lunch – cheese and the bread Jaskier had bought that morning – his body language is easy. The silence is a bit difficult for Jaskier, but both Eskel and Geralt seem at peace in it, so Jaskier does his best not to disturb them.

It’s not something he’s great at, and he finds himself humming more often than not. But no one tells him to stop.

Roach and Scorpion are good, steady, fast horses, and they find themselves in the town before evening has truly fallen. Eskel leaves Scorpion with Jaskier and Geralt to check out the inn, while he himself goes off to speak to the alderman.

The people in this town are more closed off and clearly agitated by their nightly hauntings. They do have a room available, and agree to give Jaskier and Geralt free dinner if Jaskier plays after.

Jaskier agrees easily, and he and Geralt are in the midst of putting their things in the room when Eskel finds them.

“Definitely wraiths,” he says. “I’ll take care of them tonight, shouldn’t take too long. I’ll head out after dark.”

“Jaskier is going to play again tonight,” Geralt says.

Eskel grins knowingly, but he doesn’t say anything.

Geralt flushes slightly at the look Eskel gives him, but Jaskier pretends not to notice.

Eskel readies himself making oils and potions for his hunt that night, and Jaskier sets to restringing his lute while Geralt, having submitted to Jaskier’s fussing and is settled on the bed with his ankle propped up, is reading through the book Jaskier had gotten him. Once the noise of the inn starts picking up, and Jaskier’s strings are in place and reasonably tuned, the three of them head down together, even though Eskel simply waves at them and, silver sword slung across his back, heads out.

Geralt is quiet throughout the meal, but no longer in a calm way, which Jaskier tries to puzzle out. “Does your ankle hurt?” he prompts.

Geralt shakes his head, and his eyes sweep around the room.

“Eskel will be fine,” Jaskier assures him. “You’ve never let me see a wraith fight, but you do always assure me that they’re no big deal.”

“They aren’t,” Geralt says. “I am not worried about Eskel.”

“But you are worried about something?”

Geralt shrugs, which is a yes.

“Tell me,” Jaskier coaxes.

Geralt frowns at him. “It is foolish.”

“So? I won’t judge you,” Jaskier promises.

Geralt licks his lips once before taking the bottom one between his lip. Jaskier waits, doesn’t bring up the tell, and eventually Geralt speaks. “There are a lot of people in here,” he says.

He’s right. This tavern is smaller than the last, and more packed. It’s something Jaskier has seen before in towns beset by monsters, they tend to congregate together, waiting out the night as a community.

“Do you want to wait for me in the room?” Jaskier offers. “I won’t be offended.”

Geralt bites his lip again. “Will you be okay?” he asks.

Jaskier smiles at him. “Of course,” he promises. “This is my job, I can do it as well as Eskel will do his.”

Geralt nods at that and finishes his meal without hunched shoulders.

Once the eating has finished and the drinking and waiting has started, Jaskier stands to play as Geralt slips quietly back to their room. The set goes well, all things considered. The folks are still anxious to have their wraith problem dealt with, but they had taken to Jaskier’s songs well, and Jaskier hopes that his songs had been able to give them a little more faith in Eskel.

The innkeeper behind the bar gives him a stiff nod, but he also hands Jaskier a small beer to wet his throat when he leans against the bar.

The man sitting on the stool next to where Jaskier is leaning, however, growls.

Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him and takes a relaxed sip of his beer. The smell of alcohol coming of the man is stronger than the smell coming off of Jaskier’s drink.

The man glares at him. “Little flit,” he says.

“Excuse me?” Jaskier returns. He’s been called a great many things in his life, but never a flit. He’s not even certain that it’s a proper insult.

The man waves his hands. “Prancing around like that, while you sing,” he grumbles. “All girly like.”

Ah. Jaskier shrugs. This is something he’s used to, people taking offense to the way he swings his hips, to the femininity of his hand gestures. It’s not something he’s ever bothered changing about himself however, in fact, he puts his free hand on his hip and cocks it, winking at the man for good measure. “Occupational hazard I’m afraid.”

“Is that what witchers like?” the man asks, and Jaskier feels his spine straighten. “You sang about the white wolf but the one you came with ain’t got no white mane.”

“Good sir, there is more than one witcher,” Jaskier says, trying to keep his voice light, even as he starts to catalogue everything near him that h could use as a weapon: the mug in his hand, the man’s stool, perhaps, with a good yank, the dagger in his boot, the coin pouch on his belt, even his lute, if he absolutely must.

“And do you whore for all of them?” the man asks, standing from his stool. He probably intended to loom over Jaskier, but he comes of short, having underestimated Jaskier’s height. “Spread your legs for every witcher who will have you?”

Jaskier gives a shrug, as if he doesn’t care, as if he doesn’t feel the hot, burning sensation of rage in his throat. “I’ll spread my legs for anyone who asks nicely, darling,” he says, with a wink and a laugh. It’s only years of practice that makes it sound like he’s not nervous.

The man leans closer into Jaskier’s space. “Do they pay you extra for letting a monster fuck you?”

Jaskier bites back the instinct to spit in this man’s face. Instead he laughs again, mean now, he can’t even pretend to be nice. “At least I leave their beds satisfied,” he says, sneering. “Which is more than I could say for anyone unfortunate enough to have been in yours.”

The man yells at him, all drunken rage, and punches.

There’s a horrible crunching noise, and Jaskier sees red, whether it’s blood or fury he doesn’t know. He ignores the white hot agony when he tries to breathe though his nose, instead remembering, with a sudden crystal-like clarity, Geralt standing in front of him, one hand cupping Jaskier’s elbow, the other directing his fist. Jaskier twists from his hips and punches the man right back in his face, leading with his knuckles. They scrape across the man’s skin, but the man falls back with another cry of rage.

Jaskier feels victorious for about a half second before the man swings again, getting Jaskier in the ribs this time, and the whole world pulses with the pain. Jaskier’s doubled over, trying to breathe despite his ribs and nose protesting, watching blood drip from his face onto the ground.

“Hey, now,” he hears the innkeeper say, and then there’s a high shout and a howl of pain, and Jaskier looks up to see the man fall to the ground, Geralt plucking his dagger out from behind his knee.

“Fucker!” Geralt shouts. “Don’t you dare touch him, shitbrain!”

He looks furious, his small features twisted into a scowl, teeth bared, blood on his dagger as he stands like a fighter.

“Little cunt!” the man shrieks, clutching his knee, rolling to glare at Geralt and spit at him.

Jaskier’s brain starts buzzing with fury, his own pain fading away as he growls and kicks the man in the face.

Geralt dodges the spit easily, a look of disgust on his face, and he kicks the man in the ribs at the same time Jaskier gets his face.

“Goat taint,” Geralt says cooly, spitting on the man’s face.

There’s murmuring all around them, the innkeeper rushing over, and all Jaskier can feel is fear, because they’re all looking at Geralt now, wariness and dislike on their faces.

“Hey,” Jaskier says, pitching his voice for Geralt, careful not to use his name. It would surely be strange, given how he’d just sung of him. “I’m alright, come here,” he says, lifting his good arm.

Geralt steps close to him and grabs his sleeve. “You are bleeding,” he says. “He attacked you.”

“Nothing serious,” Jaskier says, grabbing Geralt around the waist and pulling him close to stop him from stabbing the innkeeper who had just tried to scruff him from behind.

Geralt snarls, an animalistic thing, and Jaskier clutches him closer.

“If you don’t leave now I’ll have to make you,” the innkeeper says.

“Right,” Jaskier says, shuffling back towards the door, dragging Geralt, his ribs still a blur of white hot pain. “Apologies about the blood.”

Geralt digs his heels in. “He started it!” he protests. “I heard!”

“I know, but it doesn’t matter,” Jaskier says hastily. “Come, back to Roach.”

“This is unjust,” Geralt says loudly, clearly addressing the room at large. “You would let a man be attacked and demeaned after he has performed you a service? Cowards.”

“Come,” Jaskier repeats, firmer now, as several people make angry motions towards them. “We are leaving,” he assures them all, tugging harder. “Do not make me carry you with fucked up ribs,” he hisses in Geralt’s ear.

It’s a cheap ploy, but it works, because Geralt takes his own weight and leads them out, wrapping his arm around Jaskier’s waist so he can slump over his ribs. “Sorry,” he says, once they’re outside. “I did not intend to cause you further pain.”

“You didn’t,” Jaskier pants. “I just wanted to get us out of there before it got even messier. Thank you for defending me."

Geralt snarls. "I heard what that man said to you," he says. “He was disrespectful.”

Jaskier smiles a little. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

Geralt scowls. “Who else has said such things?” he demands hotly.

Jaskier laughs shakily, the adrenaline fading. “No one important. Hey, what he thinks about me doesn’t matter, okay? My skin is thicker than that.”

Geralt frowns a little more, clearly not soothed. “I don’t not think anyone has said it in my presence,” he says. “Not when I have grown.”

“What makes you say that?” Jaskier asks, amused.

“I would have killed them,” Geralt says easily.

Jaskier swallows. “You wouldn’t,” he says gently. “You don’t like killing humans. But you’re right, a big, scary witcher lurking in the corner usually keeps people off my case.” He smiles at Geralt.

Geralt continues to look upset, growling a little again. “I am sorry that this time I could not…” he trails off and sighs.

“You defended me,” Jaskier says.

“Not enough.”

“You did well. You’ll be doing even better if you find me somewhere to sit.” Jaskier smiles at Geralt again.

This time, even though Geralt huffs a little, Jaskier can see his face relax. It’s drizzling outside, not enough to soak them but enough to dampen their clothes, to make them no longer dry. Geralt has been leading them to Roach, where she’s tied up in a stable. There’s a bale of hay under the awning and Geralt leads Jaskier over to it so he can sit.

“All of our first aid stuff is in the room,” he says. “Should I go back and get it?”

“No,” Jaskier says quickly. “Stay with me, please.”

Geralt nods and sits next to him, appraising Jaskier’s face. “I think he broke your nose,” he says.

Jaskier nods. His face is throbbing in time with his heart, and as the adrenaline begins to fade it’s becoming more and more intolerable.

Geralt hums thoughtfully before he rips a strip off the bottom of his shirt.

Jaskier raises his eyebrow but Geralt ignores him, holding the cloth out under the light rain until it’s wet.

Then, gently, he reaches up and cups Jaskier’s cheek, turning his face to face him.

Jaskier smiles at him.

“I can clean the blood off,” Geralt offers, his voice soft.

“Thank you,” Jaskier agrees, just as soft.

They’re still like that when Eskel returns to the village, sitting on th hay in drizzle, Geralt pressed close to Jaskier’s side, gently, so gently, cleaning his face of blood.

“Shit, I leave you guys for a few hours and you get into trouble?” Eskel says. He crouches down to look at Jaskier. “You okay, little bard?”

“Just roughed up,” Jaskier sighs.

“He has a broken nose, a cracked rib, and his knuckles are bruised,” Geralt recites promptly. Jaskir doesn’t know how he knows all that, if he had heard Jaskier’s bones creak or something.

“Looks like you’re getting a black eye too,” Eskel says, looking closely. “Probably from the nose.”

“Great,” Jaskier says. “Everyone wants to listen to a bard who looks like he’s lost a fight. It doesn’t give me the same handsome wounded warrior look that it gives witchers.”

“You did not lose the fight,” Geralt points out.

Eskel snorts.

“Only because you were there to help me,” Jaskier says. “Geralt stabbed the man who punched me.”

“Just in the knee,” Geralt points out, like it doesn’t even matter. “He will still be able to walk.”

Eskel laughs. “Is that why you got kicked out?”

Geralt frowns. “I did not think the innkeeper would be so unfair,” he says. “That man was the one who started it.”

“Most people don’t like the person who brings a knife to a fistfight,” Jaskier says gently.

“He _hurt_ you,” Geralt says fiercely. “I could not do nothing.”

“And I couldn’t ask for a better protector,” Jaskier says. He wraps his arm around Geralt’s shoulders and tugs him the few inches closer that he can.

Geralt tucks his head against Jaskier’s shoulder.

In front of them, Eskel, still crouching, gently takes Jaskier’s bruised fist in his hands. “Doesn’t look like anything’s broken,” he says. “Just bruising on the knuckles.”

“Told you,” Geralt murmurs sulkily.

Jaskier grins at him. “You’re the one who taught me how to throw a punch without hurting myself.”

Geralt hums acknowledgement against his shoulder. “Good for me.”

Jaskier and Eskel both laugh.

“Want me to take a look at those ribs?” Eskel asks.

Jaskier nods. “Yes please,” he pants.

Eskel’s big hands slide up under Jaskier’s doublet, lifting his shirt from the waistband of his pants. “Can you move your arms?” he asks.

Jaskier nods. Geralt pulls back enough to help Eskel undo the doublet and then helps Jaskier slip it off his arms.

Once he’s free of it, Eskel’s hand sweeps under the hem of Jaskier’s undershirt and pulls it up to his chest so he can see his ribs. His hands are sure and gentle, warm against the chill of the rain in the air.

Jaskier tries hard not to shiver.

Eskel leaves one big hand on the center of his chest as he ghosts the other one over the bruising along Jaskier’s ribs. When he gives a light, experimental press, Jaskier hisses.

“Your breathing is fine, sounds dry, so nothing’s broken and stabbed your lung,” Eskel says.

“Was…did you think that had happened?” Jaskier asks, feeling dizzy.

On his good side, Geralt presses closer again, one hand holding up Jaskier’s shirt, the other holding onto his wrist.

“It’s always a danger with ribs,” Eskel says. “I’m going to make sure nothing’s broken and likely to shift.”

“Okay,” Jaskier agrees quietly.

“Sorry about this,” Eskel warns him, before he’s sweeping his whole hand across Jaskier’s ribs, obviously trying to be gentle, but even so, it’s agony. Jaskier tris to focus instead on the steady pressure of the palm fanned out on his sternum, on Geralt’s body pressed against his side.

“Sorry,” Eskel says again when he pulls back. “But nothing’s broken. You’ll be fine. Gonna hurt like a bitch for a few weeks though.”

Jaskier sighs.

“We should wrap them,” Geralt says. “But all of our stuff is in our room.”

Eskel laughs a little. “I’ll go get it, and get my coin from the alderman too. Then we can get out of here.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier pants. The pain in his ribs is worsening breath by breath as exhaustion takes over.

Geralt is pressed so close he’s practically in Jaskier’s lap. He wiggles himself under Jaskier’s arm, getting himself even closer.

“Hey,” Jaskier says softly. Because it’s obvious that Geralt is upset, and not just because he’s being so affectionate out in the open. “You okay?”

Geralt nods. “I am not the one who is injured,” he says, voice wavering with emotion.

“You know it’s not your fault, right?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt takes a shaky breath and shoves his face into Jaskier’s shoulder. “I am so sorry,” he says, voice harsh.

“There’s no need to be,” Jaskier assures him.

“I could not protect you,” Geralt says.

“You don’t have to protect me,” Jaskier says, tilting his wrist to pet Geralt’s hair. “And besides, you got him off of me. It was very heroic.”

“I want to protect you,” Geralt says. “Fighting is what witchers are trained for. It is what I am good at. What I will get better at. What is the point if I cannot protect the people who I…” He cuts himself off and swallows. “If I cannot protect you.”

“My dear, you are strong, and wonderful, but you cannot be everywhere always,” Jaskier says. “And I know how that haunts you. But you were there for me today. You were so brave, Geralt.”

“Not brave,” Geralt grumbles. “ _You_ were brave. No weapons, or training, and you still fought him.”

“Have to fight back sometimes,” Jaskier says. “Especially against assholes like that. I’m glad you were there to help me.”

“Should have been faster,” Geralt admits. “I heard him yelling at you. But I wasn’t sure if I should intervene. Then I smelled your blood.”

“I’m sorry, that must have been frightening,” Jaskier says, squeezing Geralt tighter.

Geralt shakes his head. “I wish I had stopped him.”

“Jaskier kisses the top of his head. “You did wonderfully,” he assures him. “And I will mend, especially with you and Eskel to tend to me.”

Geralt hums softly. “You do not deserve to be hurt,” he says. “I do not like it.”

“I don’t like it when you’re hurt either,” Jaskier tells him. “It’s hard to care about people. But it’s nice too. Like this hug.”

“It would be a better hug if I did not have to avoid your ribs,” Geralt says.

“You’re quite an excellent hugger,” Jaskier assures him.

Geralt scoffs at him but stays close, warm and comforting, until Eskel returns, all their packs slung over his shoulders. Geralt doesn’t eve loosen his hold on Jaskier.

“Alright, bard, let me see those ribs again,” Eskel says, unwinding cloth, balanced easily on the ground before them.

Again, Eskel and Geralt help him work his shirt up to his armpits. The night has only gotten chillier, and Jaskier shivers.

“Be fast,” Geralt instructs Eskel.

Eskel chuckles a bit. He reaches out and gently smooths a salve over the bruising. It’s cool and Jaskier can’t help but shiver again.

“Just to numb it a bit,” Eskel promises, before taking the cloth. He presses one end of it just below the center of Jaskier’s chest. His hand radiates heat out from around it, assuring warmth. Jaskier relaxes against it, Eskel’s sure hands hands and Geralt’s solid presence pressed against him. It does help, the wrapping, seeming to ease the pressure on his chest.

“There,” Eskel says, once the wrapping is done and secured. “Good as new, right, little bard?”

“Good as new,” Jaskier agrees.

Geralt huffs. “You are human. It will take a long time for your ribs to heal,” he says.

“But they feel better now,” Jaskier tells him. “And I want to get out of this town.”

“Smart idea,” Eskel says.

“I-agh-have them occasionally,” Jaskier says, groaning as Eskel and Geralt pull him to his feet.

“This is a bad idea,” Geralt says. “You need to rest.”

“Well I’m not going to be able to rest here,” Jaskier points out.

Eskel takes his arm and pulls it over his shoulder, taking most of Jaskier’s weight.

Geralt stands at his side, hands still hovering.

“Can you get Roach please?” Jaskier asks him.

Geralt nods and at once is off into the stable, throwing looks over his shoulder as though afraid that Jaskier will collapse as soon as he takes his eyes off of him.

“I wouldn’t recommend riding,” Eskel says. “Hurts like a bitch with cracked ribs.”

“Well, we can’t leave her here,” Jaskier argues.

“You could ride me though,” Eskel says, winking.

Jaskier snorts. Then winces. “Fuck, don’t make me laugh.”

Eskel grins at him. “Meant it,” he says. “I can carry you.”

Jaskier lets his head rest on Eskel’s shoulder. He’s tired, and he hurts, and the idea of napping pressed up along Eskel’s warm muscles is not exactly unappealing.

A soft clop of hooves announces Geralt and Roach. Roach is following Geralt placidly, her kid slung over Geralt’s shoulder and tucked under his arm.

“Here, switch with me,” Eskel says.

Geralt darts forward and takes Jaskier’s weight again.

Eskel picks up the saddle and bags that Geralt had dropped and starts strapping them to Scorpion, leaving Roach unburdened.

“Geralt, do you think you can handle both of the horses?” Eskel asks.

“Yes,” Geralt says. He hesitates and then asks, “Why?”

“I’ll take Jaskier, he shouldn’t be walking, and the horses will only aggravate his ribs.”

Geralt nods. He presses closer to Jaskier and squeezes his good side a little.

“Taking good care of me,” Jaskier says.

“Hm,” Geralt says. He’s quiet, Jaskier can tell that he’s thinking about something, but he can’t tell what about.

Once everything is on Scorpion, Eskel clicks his tongue softly and the horse follows after him loyally.

“Here,” Eskel says, handing both reins over to Geralt.

They switch again, Eskel taking Jaskier’s weight, and Geralt taking the horses reins.

“Up we go, little bard,” Eskel says. He lifts Jaskier smoothly, barely jostling him as he settles him into his arms. Jaskier still winces, just a bit, at the shift.

“Don’t hurt him,” Geralt demands, his voice sharp.

“I won’t, little wolf,” Eskel says.

Geralt glares at him.

“Take the road,” Eskel advises. “You lead us, alright? Not too fast.”

“Of course not,” Geralt scoffs. “I don’t want Jaskier to hurt more.”

“So thoughtful, thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier says.

Geralt grumbles something too low to hear and turns away, starting off towards the main road.

“What did he say?” Jaskier whispers to Eskel. “Could you hear?”

“Just words,” Eskel says, his voice low. “Stuff about at least being able to help now, and stupid bards.”

Jaskier laughs a little and rests his head on Eskel’s chest.

Geralt looks back at them for a second before looking forward again.

“Oooh, he made a very scary face at us,” Eskel narrates, witcher eyes still able to see in the dark.

Geralt sighs loud enough to be heard even by Jaskier. “You’re supposed to be keeping Jaskier safe, not talking.”

“I can do two things at once,” Eskel says to Geralt’s back. Then, to Jaskier, says, “Like an overprotective puppy. Then, “Oh, now he’s growling.”

Jaskier smiles. He wishes he could ruffle Geralt’s hair. He’s sure the boy is bristling with anger and embarrassment. “Well, he is a young wolf,” Jaskier says.

Eskel laughs, loud and warm in the night.

“Shut up,” Geralt snaps, loud enough to carry.

Eskel chuckles and holds Jaskier a little closer. The adrenaline from the fight has faded, leaving Jaskier exhausted. Eskel’s grip is olid, and his gate is even and sure, lulling.

Jaskier puts his head against Eskel’s chest, listening to his slow heart as he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a twitter account now if you wanted to chat, or keep up with updates for all my fic! @mrhdfic on twitter! I'll be posting updates tehre as well as we move into kink/whumptober.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt hovers, and the gang gets a lead.

“Little bard, time to wake up.”

Jaskier stirs, blinking his eyes open. The light is still thin, just the beginnings of dawn. Eskel and Geralt must have walked through the night. He’s still pressed against Eskel’s chest, being jostled gently to wake him.

Geralt is up on his tip toes, peering at him.

“You can go right back to sleep,” Eskel says, “but I want to get you settled and look at your ribs again first.”

“Settled where?” Jaskier asks, looking around. They seem to be outside a building, close to the side, and from the smell, there must be a stable nearby. He can’t see Roach or Scorpion either, but he notices the bags slung over Geralt’s shoulder.

“You’ll be proud,” Eskel says. “Geralt got us a room.”

“You did?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt scowls and cross his arms over his chest. “I know how to speak to people,” he says.

“But you don’t like it,” Jaskier points out.

Geralt just shrugs.

“Thank you for doing that for us,” Jaskier says.

Geralt huffs and shrugs again, looking awkward. “Well I can’t hold you like Eskel is,” he says.

He’s close enough that when Jaskier reaches out he can tug gently on his ponytail.

Geralt huffs again, pinching lightly at Jaskier’s wrist, but from the way he ducks his head Jaskier knows he’s trying not to smile.

“Lead on, witcher,” Jaskier says, gesturing grandly.

Geralt rolls his eyes but he squeezes Jaskier’s fingers gently and says, “Fine.”

The woman behind the bar nods at the three of them when they walk in, apparently not phased by a hulking witcher carrying a wounded bard in his arms.

Geralt leads them through at door at the back of the room, and down a hallway. He takes a key out and unlocks the last door before the stairs. “I asked for a room on the ground floor,” he says. “Knew it would be easier.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says as Eskel carries him in.

“Hm,” Geralt says, toeing at the ground with his boots.

The room isn’t too large, but it is able to hold two beds with a bit of space between them, one pushed under a window.

Eskel settles Jaskier on the bed closest to the window, propping up some pillows behind him. “There. Should be easier on your ribs like that,” he says.

Geralt drops this bags on the spare bed and sits down carefully next to Jaskier.

“Come here,” Jaskier says, lifting his right arm so Geralt can curl against his uninjured side.

Geralt does, still moving carefully.

Eskel lifts Jaskier’s shirt, inspecting the bandages. “Your breathing still sounds fine,” he says. “Still hurting?”

“Yes,” Jaskier sighs.

Eskel hums unhappily. “It’s best not to keep them wrapped for too long,” he says. “I can unwrap them and give you something for the pain and to help you sleep.”

“More sleep?” Jaskier says. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you like that.”

“It’s fine,” Eskel says.

“You need sleep to heal,” Geralt adds.

“A pair of mother hens you are,” Jaskier says.

“I am not a hen,” Geralt says.

“You’d be a very fierce hen,” Jaskier offers. “A terror with your beak surely.”

Geralt crosses his arms over his chest. “You are being silly,” he accuses. “Eskel has not even given you medicine yet.”

Jaskier laughs at that, then groans as it jostles his ribs. “I assure you, I am much sillier once I have had poppy,” he says.

“Stop straining yourself!” Geralt demands, looking both annoyed and worried.

“Here,” Eskel interrupts, giving Jaskier a cup with a small bit of liquid in it. It smells sweet, cloying, and Jaskier is sure it will knock him right out. He drinks it obediently and lets Eskel unwind the bandages around his chest. By the time he’s done, Jaskier can already feel himself drifting. The last thing he’s aware of before falling asleep is Geralt’s small body pressing against his side.

When Jaskier wakes, slowly and blearily, the first thing he notices is Geralt. Geralt usually sleeps curled against Jaskier’s left side, closer to his heartbeat, but now he’s curled up on Jaskier’s right, head on Jaskier’s tilted stomach, legs entangled, his breathing slow and even.

Jaskier reaches out and strokes his hand through his bangs and the soft hairs that have escaped the tie.

“Okay there, Jaskier?”

Eskel’s voice is a deep rumble beside him. Jaskier turns his head and sees him kneeling beside the bed, sword across his lap, whetstone in hand.

Jaskier hums. “Still tired,” he says.

Eskel smiles. “Go back to sleep,” he encourages.

Jaskier does.

The next time Jaskier wakes, he’s far less groggy. Geralt is still curled against him, but Jaskier can tell by the rhythm of his breathing that he’s meditating, not asleep. Sure enough, as soon as Jaskier tries to sit up more and groans, Geralt is awake, pressing him down gently.

“You shouldn’t move yet,” he says. “Your ribs are still injured.”

“Ugh,” Jaskier says, letting Geralt push him further into the pillows.

“Are you in pain?” Geralt asks, peering closely at Jaskier.

“Just sore,” Jaskier says. “Nothing unmanageable.”

Geralt frowns at him. “I had an idea,” he says. “I do not know if it viable, however.”

Jaskier smiles at him. “Yeah? What was it?”

“There are witcher potions for healing,” Geralt says. “They’re toxic for humans. But..” he hesitates, and Jaskier sees him tongue at his lip briefly in nervousness. “If diluted, or in smaller doses…I thought I might have tried it. If you were injured when I was older.”

Jaskier nods. “You did,” he confirms. The first time Jaskier had been slashed following Geralt around, Geralt had immediately panicked, denied his worried, complained about stupid fucking bards, and rifled frantically through his supplies, none of which were suited for human medical care. He had ended up giving Jaskier a small sip of swallow, watching him closely. It had burned on the way down and turned Jaskier’s stomach, but he hadn’t dropped over dead, which is what Geralt seemed to half expect, either from the wound or the swallow. Jaskier had stopped bleeding soon after, but they’d never been sure how much of that had been due to the potion and which had been Jaskier’s naturally healing abilities, of which he did have some, even if they weren’t as fast or thorough as witcher ones. “But you do have human healing potions,” he tells Geralt.

“I do?” Geralt says, frowning a little. “There were some potions I didn’t recognize.”

Jaskier nods. “You started carrying those for me.” Geralt has never said as much, but after that first time with the swallow Geralt had started carrying salves and medicines that he’d had no hesitation giving to Jaskier or smearing on his injuries. Jaskier doesn’t know where Geralt learned to make human medicines, but he’s good at it; everything he’s given Jaskier has worked well, and Geralt had talked him through the ingredients with a relaxed kind of surety.

“Oh,” Geralt says. “That makes good sense.”

Jaskier smiles at me. “Bring me the ones you don’t recognize. I might recognize them.”

Geralt does, clearly hurrying, but trying to be subtle about it, as he fetches several bottles from his bag. One of them is a mixture of honey and herbs, for Jaskier’s throat, either when he’s staring to come down with something or when he overdoes it during a performance. The other is a poppy mixture, for pain, probably what Eskel had given Jaskier last night. The third is something that Geralt pours on Jaskier’s wounds, a mix of disinfectant and something numbing. Jaskier’s never had it from anyone else, and he often wonders if it’s something Geralt had actually come up with himself.

“This one,” he says, tapping the second bottle. “For pain and sleep.”

“Are you still tired?” Geralt asks, looking concerned. “Rest facilitates healing.”

“I’ve slept a lot,” Jaskier points out. “Just give me a small pour of that potion and I’ll be fine.”

Geralt frowns, but carefully measures out a dose, his expression serious.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, smiling as he takes it.

Geralt continues to look worried, expression deep and serious.

“Hey, I’ll be alright,” Jaskier assures him, running a hand over his head.

Geralt looks unconvinced.

“Would you like me to braid your hair?” Jaskier offers.

“Will it not aggravate your wounds?”

“It won’t,” Jaskie assures him. He does still feel stiff, and sore, but moving his arms ought not to be too much trouble. “Get the brush.”

Geralt doesn’t normally brush his hair, as an adult or as a child, preferring to let it grow wild, but he’d had a brush at least, even when Jaskier met him, for occasional use.

Geralt fetches it now, pulling the leather tie out from his ponytail and handing them both to Jaskier.

Jaskier is still a bit stiff, and it tugs and pulls on his aches, but it’s nothing too concerning, and besides, Jaskier finds that the soothing act of brushing Geralt’s hair more than makes up for it. Jaskier braids it, something nice and simple, before he declares his work done.

“Thank you,” Geralt says, leaning carefully back into him.

“You’re welcome,” Jakier says.

It’s nice and quiet, the soft sounds of foot traffic outside, Geralt’s even breaths, his smell, and Jaskier finds himself nodding off again.

He jerks awake when the door opens, startled, but it’s only Eskel.

“You woke Jaskier,” Geralt tells him, looking very disproving.

Eskel chuckles. “Sorry, bard,” he says.

“It’s fine, I wasn’t that deep asleep anyways,” Jaskier says. “Where did you go?”

“Restocking,” Eskel says, showing Jaskier bags that must contain his shopping. “How are the ribs?”

“Sore,” Jaskier admits.

“That’s to be expected,” Eskel says.

Geralt, of course, is frowning. “Jaskier’s breaths are not as deep as they usually are,” he reports.

“Also to be expected,” Eskel says soothingly.

“I may heal slower than you, but I will heal,” Jaskier assures Geralt, running a hand over the boy’s head.

Geralt makes a grumpy noise at him. “I know. But I…” He swallows a little. “Fine. But you will rest.”

Jaskier bites back a laugh. “Only if you rest with me.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says again. He slides out of bed and crosses over to his pack, removing the book Jaskier had bought him.

“Bring me my notebook?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt climbs back into bed with Jaskier pressed gently against his uninjured side and gives Jaskier his notebook, and the pencil.

Jaskier sketches out a few ideas for songs, lyrics and chords alike, nothing concrete or sensible, his brain feeling a bit sluggish after the medicine. And he’s using half of it to keep an eye on Geralt, even though he seems fine curled up reading.

Eventually he becomes aware of Geralt having stopped, the boy muttering something under his breath.

Jaskier stops too, looking over at him. “Geralt?” he asks.

“I am fine,” Geralt says immediately.

Jaskier laughs. “I’m sure you are. But I can hear your brain working.”

“You cannot,” Geralt says.

“Not a lot of metaphors at Kaer Morhen, huh?”

Geralt frowns at him. “You the one who uses words differently,” he says.

“Oh yeah? Words like what?” Jaskier asks, pretty sure he knows why Geralt has stopped reading. “One of them in here?”

Geralt frowns at him but he points.

“Merry?” Jaskier reads.

Geralt nods. “I know what it means,” he says. “But it does not make sense.”

Jaskier reads the whole sentence. _The party was merry, as was the princess_.

“Why would they have a such a party?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier hums. “In my experience ‘merry’ means joyful, fun. But it makes sense if it would mean something different in your experience.”

Geralt hiums a little. “I thought it meant ‘short’,” he says. “The older boys tease us with it sometimes.”

“That’s fascinating,” Jaskier says. “I’ve always been interested in how language can change.”

“Joyful,” Geralt repeats.

“Yeah. A happy, fun party. And a happy princess.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. “That sounds more like you.”

Jaskier laughs. “Thank you,” he says. “I try.”

Outside their room, there’s the low clatter of dinner getting prepared to be served. The idea of it makes Jaskier’s stomach grumble.

Eskel, sitting against the wall, laughs. “Guess we forgot to feed you, little bard,” he says.

“No, I just forgot to eat,” Jaskier says. “But it sounds like we can remedy that now.”

Geralt narrows his eyes at him. “You want to go to dinner,” he says flatly.

“Well, I am hungry,” Jaskier says sensibly.

“I will bring you food,” Geralt says. “Or Eskel will. But you should stay in bed.”

“I’ve been in bed all day,” Jaskier says. “Besides, sitting actually helps my injury.”

Geralt huffs at him. “Eskel,” he says, looking over his shoulder at him, “don’t you think Jaskier ought to stay in bed?”

“I do,” Eskel says. “But I can tell already that this is a fight you’re going to lose, little wolf.” He stands and crosses over to the bed. “If the bard wants to go to dinner, then I think we’re going to end up going to dinner.”

Jaskier grins.

And so they go to dinner, Geralt sticking close, blatantly refusing to leave his side, as if he thinks Jaskier’s ribs might spontaneously shatter.

Jaskier lets him fuss, he can tell that Geralt is genuinely worried and uncertain, and it’s hard not to be able to soothe him and promise that he’s fine when inhaling too deeply hurts.

Eskel is the one sent to the bar to get them dinner, and he returns with beer, good beer, beer that washes the stale taste of medicine and rest from Jaskier’s mouth.

“Where’s the food?” Geralt demands, looking at Eskel suspiciously.

“Being cooked,” Eskel says, rolling his eyes.

Geralt frowns.

“Patience, little wolf,” Eskel chuckles, ruffling Geralt’s hair. He has to reach over Jaskier to do, and that makes Geralt frown even further.

“Be careful,” he chides.

“I am not made of glass,” Jaskier tells him, but there’s no rebuke in it, he’s actually quite charmed by Geralt’s attentions.

Geralt frowns at him too. “You told me to stay abed because of my ankle,” he points out.

“We’ve been in bed all day,” Jaskier points out. “And sitting doesn’t aggravate my injuries.”

“Hmph,” Geralt says.

Jaskier flicks the braid he’d given him and Geralt narrows his eyes, kicking Jaskier’s ankle with his good foot. Eskel ignores them both.

There’s a bard already playing the room, and Jaskier thinks that he’s not too bad. Probably self-taught and has only played for small, local crowds, but he manages to be in tune most of the time, and he’s singing famous songs, well known ones, so Jaskier doesn’t have to listen to poor attempts at rhyme schemes.

Geralt, however, keeps sending the man looks that might as well be daggers.

“Don’t like the music?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt sniffs. “He is not as good as you.”

Jaskier laughs, but inside he feels warm, tugging Geralt closer to him. “Very few are,” he says.

Eskel laughs. “Modesty is not one of the arts they teach you at Oxenfurt, huh?”

Jaskier grins at him playfully. “No use pretending I don’t know my own talent,” he says.

“Such a big head,” Eskel says patting the top of it.

Geralt makes an angry noise and shoves his hand away. “Stop bothering Jaskier,” he says.

“Eskel’s the one who got me this beer,” Jaskier says. “He can bother me all he wants.”

Geralt’s no doubt angry retort is cut short by the arrival of the food.

Jaskier nudges him playfully but with the food to focus on instead of the subpar bard, Geralt seems to relax.

The food is better than the bard, and almost as good as the beer, and by the time they’re full, Geralt looks more relaxed despite himself, even if he continues to hover over Jaskier, especially when Jaskier gets up and starts the shuffle back towards their room.

“Excuse me.”

The three of them stop in their tracks, and Geralt and Eskel both step in front of Jaskier.

The man calling their attention is just a townsman and at the twin glares he raises his hands. “I’m sorry to bother you, sirs,” he says. “And I know I shouldn’t point these things out, but, I saw the way one of you is limping, and well, if you’re looking for a healer there’s a good one just three days away. My wife, she’d been sick, seen a bunch of hedgewitches and so-called sorcerers, none of them could do shit for her. But this woman there, she fixed my wife right up. She’s back to her old self again.”

Jaskier knows he shouldn’t hope, but he can’t help it. Someone that powerful must have real magic, trained magic, and as far as Jaskier knows, there’s only one incredibly powerful, trained magic user just wandering the continent.

“What did she look like?” Jaskier asks. He knows it’s pointless, that Yennefer can change what she looks like any time she chooses, that any mage could do the same.

“She…well she was beautiful,” the man says, blushing lightly. “She had dark hair, long, and her dress was black too. With just a flash of white. And her eyes. They were violet. I’ve never seen anything like them before. Knew she was magic just ‘cause of that.”

 _It’s Yennefer, it has to be_ , Jaskier thinks. That is far too much to simply be coincidence.

“What are you thinking, little bard?” Eskel asks, when presumably Jaskier has been silent for too long.“Want to see her?”

Jaskier nods. It sounds too much like Yennefer for him to ignore it. At his side, Geralt presses a little closer. Jaskier places a hand on his shoulder. “Which direction should we head?” he asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry is a word that has changed meaning in English over the years! Please follow me or interact with me on twitter @mrhdfic or on tumblr @winnifredburkle, I'd love to hear from you guys as I gear up for october prompt fests!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer at last!

It takes a bit longer than the traveler’s suggested three days to arrive in the town. Eskel and Geralt had insisted on slowing down their pace, in deference to Jaskier’s ribs, Jaskier is thankful for it, if he’s being honest, even it means that they arrive in town well after sundown. Luckily enough, there are still lights on in the inn, and even luckier, a room available. Jaskier doesn’t want to complain, but after the last few nights on the road, his ribs are a bit achey, even though both Geralt and Eskel had insisted that he take their bedrolls as well.

The room only has one bed, and Eskel doesn’t even give Geralt or Jaskier the chance to make token protests before he settles himself down on the floor.

Geralt settles himself carefully against Jaskier’s uninjured side as usual. He’s been getting progressively quieter as they traveled, and has barely spoken at all over the past day.

“Alright?” Jaskier asks him, smoothing down some of his flyaways.

“I am not afraid,” Geralt says, of course.

“I know you’re not,” Jaskier says, even though he thinks Geralt might be. What is he sure of is that Geralt will not let any of his fear stop their journey. “You still don’t have to see the witch, whoever she may be, if you don’t want,” Jaskier promises him.

“Do you believe it to be your friend?” Geralt asks.

“I do,” Jaskier says. He can’t explain why, but he has a feeling about it. “And if it is Yennefer, I can promise that she won’t do anything to hurt you.”

“I trust you,” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier smiles at him and holds him close.

When he wakes in the morning, Geralt and Eskel are both awake, and Jaskier wonders if either of them had even slept.

They both watch Jaskier intensely as he gets dressed, and Geralt can’t seem to help him from darting in to help Jaskier put on his doublet.

Jaskier inhales, because he knows he has a fight ahead of him. “I think it’s best if I go find Yennefer by myself.”

“No!” Geralt protests immediately. “You are injured! She could hurt you!”

Jaskier smiles at him. “Yennefer has had many chances to hurt me over the years. And she never has.”

Geralt frowns, clearly displeased.

“And you’re sure that it is your friend?” Eskel says.

Jaskier nods. “Quite sure,” he says. “I can’t explain it. But even if it’s not, I’ll simply ask the witch for something innocuous enough, and we can be on our way.”

Geralt continues to frown. “You should not go alone,” he insists.

“I will be fine,” Jaskier promises him. “I will have my dagger, and you guys can stay close enough that you can still hear me if I yell, yes?”

Geralt continues to frown, but Eskel looks over his head and nods at Jaskier. It might be easier if they all show up together, but Jaskier wants to be sure, wants to know that it is Yennefer, before he subjects Geralt to another magic user, and Eskel seems to agree.

“Be careful,” Geralt tells him before he leaves, gripping tightly at Jaskier’s hand.

“I will be,” Jaskier promises.

Geralt hesitates a moment more before he tugs Jaskier over to their packs with him. From a saddlebag, he fishes out his wolf head medallion, pressing it into Jaskier’s hand.

“Silver,” he says. “Just in case. It will warn you.”

Jaskier’s heart thumps hard and he pulls Geralt into a hug before the boy can protest. “I’ll take care of it.”

Geralt returns the hug. “You must return it to me,” he says.

 _You_ must return to me, he means. “Of course,” Jaskier says. “I would never do otherwise.”

He has the medallion in his pocket, one hand wrapped around it as he waits patiently in line with all the other interested customers at deceptively small cottage. It makes him wonder if it really is Yennefer in there, Jaskier just can’t see her living in such a small space.

But then again, person after person leaves, looking satisfied, so it must be someone of great talent.

Eventually it’s Jaskier’s turn to step inside, and once he does, he feels immediately guilty for ever doubting that it had been Yennefer. The interior is far wider than the exterior suggests, furnishings luxurious and expensive looking. Not to mention the scent, lilac and gooseberries, and Yennefer herself, seated at a table.

She raises her eyebrows at him. “Jaskier,” she says. “Come alone?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Jaskier says, sitting across the table from her.

“Come to catch up?” Yennefer teases.

“Not quite,” Jaskier says. “I need your help.”

“Always wonderful to hear,” Yennefer says, smirking.

“Geralt needs your help,” Jaskier continues, showing her the medallion in his palm.

Yennefer hesitates, regarding the medallion with intense scrutiny. After a few moments, she reaches out and runs her finger across the wolf’s face. It vibrates against Jaskier’s palm. Yennefer pulls her hand back. “I cannot bring back the dead,” she says gravely, her eyes dark

“Oh, no, fuck,” Jaskier says. “Yennefer, I’m sorry, he’s not dead.”

Yennefer glares at him. “Witchers do not take their medallions off,” she snaps.

“He’s been de-aged,” Jaskier says quickly. “He doesn’t know exactly how old he is, but I don’t think he can be older than ten, at most. He refuses to wear the medallion because he hasn’t passed the trial yet. He gave me the medallion for protection. I thought it would make you believe me.”

Yennefer sighs at him. “You could have started with your outlandish story,” she says.

“I thought you might throw me out,” Jaskier admits.

Yennefer continues to glare.

“ _Do_ you believe me?” Jaskier asks.

“Unfortunately yes,” Yennefer sighs. “Go get him, bring him here, I’ll turn the rest of them away.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says earnestly.

“The two of you attract far too much trouble,” Yennefer says, walking Jaskier out.

“Well it’s lucky then that we’re friends with such a sorceress,” Jaskier says, grinning at Yennefer.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, bard,” she says, opening the door.

Jaskier still clutches Geralt’s medallion in his hand, rubbing a hand over the wolf as he makes his way back to Eskel and Geralt. They hadn’t wanted to stay at the inn, of course, and are instead waiting on the tree line a bit away with Roach and Scorpion.

The horse are both busy grazing, but the witchers are both looking at Jaskier as he approaches, had probably heard him approach before Jaskier could see them. Jaskier smiles at them both. “It is Yennefer,” he says. “She’s agreed to help us.”

“That’s good news,” Eskel says, putting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Right?”

Geralt makes a face.

“You still don’t have to see her,” Jaskier assures Geralt, stepping closer.

Geralt squares his shoulders. “We can go see her,” he says, making his way over to Jaskier.

Jaskier offers him the medallion back, but Geralt nudges it back into his hand. “Just in case,” he murmurs.

Jaskier ruffles his hair and lets Geralt stick himself to his side, their legs brushing as they walk. Jaskier notices that Geralt is brushing his hand over the hilt of his sword every few seconds. Eskel follows behind them with the horses.

A few feet from Yennefer’s cottage and Geralt stops.

“Does it feel alright?” Jaskier asks Geralt quietly. “Her magic?”

Geralt nods. “It is…non-obtrusive. Focused.” But he remains close to Jaskier pressed against his side as they approach the door.

Jaskier knocks on the door for politeness, even he’s sure Yennefer already knows that they’re there.

She opens the door promptly, taking in Geralt, small and pressed up against Jaskier’s side, and Eskel, large and looming behind them.

“My, you do collect witchers,” she says, smirking at Jaskier as she steps aside to let them enter.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Finding Eskel was a happy accident,” he says.

Eskel huffs. “You know, I was starting to think your tales of a beautiful sorceress friend were a lie.”

“I would never lie about the lovely Yennefer,” Jaskier says, forcing things to be light as Geralt grips his hand, hard. Jaskier can feel his bones grinding under his witcher strength.

Yennefer rolls her eyes but ignores them, instead crouching so she’s at eye level with Geralt. Geralt’s grip gets harder. “Hello, Geralt,” she says softly.

“Hello,” Geralt says back, voice blank and soft.

“I know she looks scary, but she won’t hurt you,” Jaskier says softly to Geralt.

Yennefer’s face flickers briefly before it smooths out. “I will not,” she promises.

Geralt bites his lip. He regards Yennefer for a long time before he nods. “Alright,” he says, but he doesn’t step away from Jaskier or let go of his hand.

“May I examine you?” Yennefer asks.

Jaskier could kiss her for asking.

Geralt pulls back a bit. “What kind of examination?” he asks, suspicious.

“Just a magical one,” Yennefer says. “To detect the curse that has been placed upon you so I can determine how best to break it. I will not have to touch you.”

Geralt regards her for several seconds before he eventually nods.

Yennefer also nods and closes her eyes, presumably scanning him. Jaskier can’t feel anything, but Geralt presses closer to him and shivers.

It’s over quickly though, and Yennefer is opening her eyes again and stepping back. “Definitely a curse,” she says. “But not too complicated of one. It will take a few days, but I will be able to undo it.”

Jaskier exhales in relief and beams at her. “Thank you, Yennefer,” he says.

Yennefer doesn’t exactly smile, but her mouth softens, and the ends of her mouth tick up.

“The three of you are welcome to stay here as long as you like,” she says, standing up.

“Is there room?” Jaskier asks looking around. The house is large than it looks from outside, but Jaskier can still only see one doorway leading out of the main area, and he assumes it leads to the room Yennefer has been staying in.

She rolls her eyes and waves her hand and suddenly the room is larger, and there’s three cots lined up neatly against the wall. “Plenty of room,” Yennefer says, smirking. “Now, bard. A word.”

Geralt squeezes Jaskier hand, hard.

“I’ll be alright,” Jaskier. “Won’t leave your sight. Promise.”

Geralt nods and loosens his fingers, though he looks unhappy about it.

Jaskier follows Yennefer to a small table, where she’s collecting a bundle of herbs in her hands.

“You’re favoring your right side,” Yennefer says bluntly.

Jaskier exhales. “It’s just some cracked ribs. I’ll be fine.”

Yennefer smiles at him, and presses the bundle of herbs gently to his ribs. There’s a warm sensation that sweeps across Jaskier, and it takes the pressure from his ribs with it. “What cracked ribs?” Yennefer says, something between a smile and a smirk on her face.

Jaskier grins back at her. He’s barely taken two steps back towards Geralt before the boy is next to him, grabbing at his arm.

“What did she do to you?” he demands.

“Nothing,” Jaskier assures him. “Yennefer only hurts me with her verbal barbs.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes.

Geralt frowns. Jaskier can practically feel the anxiety pouring off of him.

“Yennefer is my friend, and yours,” Jaskier says. “You can trust her, I promise.”

Yennefer smiles over her shoulder at Geralt, and it’s warm, affectionate, one of the ones Jaskier’s only seen briefly before. “I’m sure you know how annoying Jaskier can be,” she says, to Geralt.

Jaskier pretends to be offended and huffs.

“And I’ve yet to turn him into a slug,” Yennefer continues.

“Surely you can manage something more impressive than a slug,” Jaskier says.

Geralt continues to frown. “You will _not_ be turning Jaskier into a slug,” he says firmly.

“Of course not,” Yennefer says breezily. “I highly doubt it would work to quiet him anyways.”

“Jaskier, the singing slug,” Jaskier says grandly. “Could make a fortune as an oddity.”

“Until someone salts you,” Yennefer points out.

Geralt looks between them, his face scrunched up in either confusion or distress, or perhaps a bit of both.

Jaskier tugs him closer. “You’ll never get the chance,” he tells Yennefer, “not with my splendid protector at my side.”

Geralt huffs. “Do not mock me,” he says snappily.

“I’m not,” Jaskier assures him. “I have nothing but faith in you.”

Geralt continues to glare at him, but Jaskier pulls his close, which seems to relax him.

Yennefer seems to soften a bit, her posture relaxing, her face smoothing out. “Are you guys hungry?” she asks.

“Definitely,” Eskel says. “Tired of rabbits.”

Yennefer actually cooks, which probably shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. After all, cooking isn’t much different than the spells and potions Yennefer must prepare regularly, it’s just that, in Jaskier’s admittedly robust imagination, Yennefer of Vengerburg had seemed above such mortal things as preparing food.

Geralt insists on watching her chook, eyeing the food suspiciously, probably waiting for Yennefer to slip something in. It’s silly. If Yennefer wanted them incapacitated, she wouldn’t use poison, and even if she did, there’s no way any of them would know she had poisoned their food until after their hearts had already stopped.

To her credit, Yennefer doesn’t let on if she takes offence to Geralt’s suspicions, and it’s quite a great deal of credit, since Geralt is being both obvious and rude about it. Jaskier keeps trying to send Yennefer apologetic looks to make up for it, but, as always, he finds her hard to read.

Eskel is a great help at dinner, keeping a conversation about unimportant things with Jaskier so they don’t have to suffer in silence while Geralt glares and Yennefer pretends as though she doesn’tnotice.

Jaskier aches to get her alone, to explain, that Geralt’s suspicion has nothing to with her personally, and the distrust apparent in his younger self is not something that remains as he grows. Jaskier can sense somehow that it’s bothering Yennefer more than she’s letting on, and although they’ve always been rivals of a sort, and although Jaskier has been trying to avoid her since he and Geralt…well…he _does_ like Yennefer, and he doesn’t want to see her feel badly about it. But Geralt’s fierce protectiveness seems to have him glued permanently to Jaskier’s side, so getting Yennefer alone seems an impossibility. Perhaps he will use Eskel as a distraction.

In fact, it’s Geralt who manages to drag Jaskier away from the others, though in his case, he’s not trying to be subtle and Jaskier is willing.

“Why do you antagonize her?” Geralt asks quietly, once he deems them far enough away from Yennefer.

Jaskier chuckles, he can’t help it. “I’m not,” he assures him. “That’s just how we are with each other. We tease each other, but we don’t mean anything by it.”

Geralt hums, thinking.

“You do the same thing with Eskel,” Jaskier points out. “He could hurt you, but you know he won’t. It’s the same with Yennefer.”

“Eskel is not a mage,” Geralt points out.

“Perhaps you ought to talk to Yennefer about your feelings towards mages,” Jaskier suggests. “I think she might have quite a few opinions in common with you.”

“Why would she?”

“Haven’t you noticed that she’s living here, helping villagers, instead of established in a court somewhere?” Jaskier asks. He doesn’t know the full details of Yennefer’s history, she would never tell him, and he’s not sure how much she’s ever told anyone. But he does notice things, like how Yennefer had made fools of the leadership in Rinde, how she moves around, never settling, how he’s never seen her in the company of other mages.

Geralt hums thoughtfully again.

“I’ll stay near you as much as you’d like,” Jaskier promises him. “But Yennefer will do neither of us harm.”

“I will not let anyone harm you again,” Geralt say after a long moment, vicious and quiet.

“I know,” Jaskier says. “My white wolf.”

Geralt hums again, sounding pleased even as he ducks his face to the side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter than I had hoped, but sometimes that's the way the chapter cookie crumbles. I'm so glad to hear that you're all enjoying this fic!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three different conversations are had, and wine is drunk,

As usual, Geralt wakes before Jaskier. When Jaskier does wake, he finds Geralt wide awake and staring unmoving at Yennefer, who is sat in front of a mirror, brushing her hair out.

He has the sneaking suspicion that Yennefer’s vanity usually resides in her room, but that she’s brought it out as a challenge to Geralt. Jaskier knows perfectly well how long Geralt can, and will, sit silently and stare, so he gets up.

Geralt’s focus shifts to Jaskier, and eventually he gets up and follows him over to where Yennefer is still brushing out her hair. Jaskier puts his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and heaves a dramatic sigh.

Yennefer raises one eyebrow, and Geralt tilts his head.

“Yennefer, I have a problem,” Jaskier begins.

“Oh?” Yennefer says, looking largely disinterested.

Geralt presses himself closer to Jaskier.

Jaskier takes Geralt’s ponytail and flicks it. “Look at this, Yennefer,” he says. “Poor Geralt seems to have accidentally placed a bird’s nest upon his head. Might we borrow one of your fine brushes and perhaps your expertise to tame it?”

Geralt scowls at him. “You are the one who brusted it last,” he points out, swatting Jaskier’s hand away.

“And since I have been injured.” Jaskier sighs dramatically again. “And gods know that you witchers are helpless with such things.”

Geralt huffs. “I have had long hair for years. It has been fine. I do not see why you are always complaining.”

“There’s more to it than it just being out of your eyes,” Jaskier says. “Right, Yennefer?”

Unless Jaskier is incredibly mistaken, Yennefer’s mouth actually twitches into a smile. She pulls out a brush, deep black, with a shine not unlike that of a pearl. It’s gorgeous, and yet apparently a spare, because Yennefer hands the brush to Geralt. “I’ve seen the rough hewn brushes you favor,” she says. “This one will serve you better.”

Geralt takes it gingerly. “A gift?” he asks, sounding suspicious.

“Yes.”

“At what cost?”

Something in Yennefer’s expression shifts minutely, shuttering. “No cost,” she says smoothly. “Or it would not be a gift.”

“The mages say everything has its cost,” Geralt argues, his tone heavy and serious as he peers intensely at Yennefer.

“Magic always does,” Yennefer agrees, also sounding grave. “Do you know why I brush my hair, Geralt?”

Geralt’s face scrunches a bit in thought. “To keep it proper?”

In between one blink and the next Yennefer’s hair becomes blonde, and is piled atop her head in a multitude of intricate braids. A breath, and it’s back to its black waves. “I don’t need to brush my hair to keep it proper,” Yennefer says. “But I do. Because then it is real.”

Geralt looks at her thoughtfully. “Magic is real though,” he says, touching a point on his arm.

Jaskier wonders about the significance of the spot.

“But, as you said, it is not without cost,” Yennefer says, pulling a few strands of dead hair out. “No matter how small.

Geralt looks at Yennefer, just as serious as before, but with something almost desperate in his eyes. “Do you know the cost of making a witcher?” he asks, voice gaining in speed, pitch, and intensity.

Across the room, Eskel’s mechanical motions over his sword stop. The room itself seems to stay still.

“I was never taught how to make a witcher,” Yennefer says slowly. “But I imagine the cost is similar to the cost of making a sorceress of Aretuza.”

Geralt considers this for a long time, before finally he nods. He actually climbs up onto the bench next to Yennefer and hands Jaskier the hairbrush, undoing his tie.

Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him in the mirror and chuckles to break the tension. “Yes, my lord?” he drawls.

Geralt frowns at him, but Eskel and Yennefer both relax.

“You were the one complaining about the state of my hair,” Geralt points out.

“You mean the dirt trap you have on your head?” Jaskier asks, ruffling it.

“We bathed yesterday,” Geralt argues.

To be fair, it is nowhere near the dirtiest or worst smelling they’ve ever been around each other.

Yennefer laughs lightly. “It’s nice to know that your penchant for smelling like horse is something innate, and not something you grow to develop.”

“I do not smell of horse,” Geralt says, crossing his arms.

“Perhaps it is Roach then you smells like you,” Jaskier suggests, combing lightly through Geralt’s hair with his fingers first, getting it to lay properly.

Geralt scowls at him in the mirror.

Jaskier grins back innocently. “Don’t worry, dear, we’re all used to it by now,” Jaskier assures him.

Geralt pouts. “If I smell of horse so do you,” he says.

Jaskier gasps and puts his hand over his heart. “I never!” he says in mock offense. “So rude,” he adds, yanking lightly on Geralt’s hair.

Geralt grins at him, all childish, gap-toothed mischief. “You do,” he insists.

“Bards do not smell of horse,” Jaskier says, starting with the brush. “Only unwashed witchers do.”

“I support you’re not a very good bard then,” Geralt says. “Perhaps an unwashed witcher bard, at best.”

“Oh, a witcher bard, certainly,” Jaskier says. “Have you not seen the company I keep? Heard my songs?”

“I think Geralt is right,” Yennefer says idly. “You are more wild and unwashed than your fellows.”

Jaskier squawks dramatically and watches Geralt fight a smile.

“Have you met many bards, Yennefer?” Geralt asks.

“Many.”

“Were they all loud and so needlessly dramatic?”

Jaskier smacks him lightly on the head with the brush.

Yennefer’s smile grows sharp. “No,” she says. “You’ve found yourself a...unique companion.”

Jaskier very manfully does not stick his tongue out at Yennefer. “You know,” he says, “perhaps you have just never met any bards of my caliber.”

“Oh, definitely not ones of your caliber.”

Jaskier very badly wants to tug at a lock of her hair like he would with Geralt. Instead he restrains himself and simply says, “Tell me who then. And I shall tell you of their worth.”

Yennefer spends the next several minutes naming bards she’s heard perform, a few of whom Jaskier actually does know, a few he’s never heard of, and several he thinks she’s just made up. He cares for none of them, boring, uninspired, frauds, cheats, plagiarists, the lot of them, he assures her. Yennefer sets her brush down the same time that Jaskier finishes with Geralt’s braid, which is either incredible timing, or Yennefer excels at looking busy while not doing anything at all to hair.

“I ought to teach you how to do this yourself,” Jaskier muses, flicking Geralt’s braid over his shoulder. “I still think you ought to know. It works, does it not?”

Geralt nods. He looks at Yennefer then, bafflingly, before pausing, looking thoughtful.

Yennefer and Jaskier look at each other briefly, before waiting for him to speak.

“Will I remember?” Geralt asks eventually. “If Jaskier teaches me to braid now, will I remember how once I am grown again?”

Yennefer grows thoughtful too. “I am not sure,” she admits. “I do not know how the other mage changed you. He may have moved time through your body, or made your mind unable to access anything beyond a certain point, and paired it with a strong glamor. I would need to examine the magic on you further. Would you like to do it now?”

Geralt hesitates, body tense.

Jaskier puts his hand on his shoulder and rubs a bit with his thumb. “Will it hurt?” he asks.

Yennefer shakes her head. “It will not harm you, and it will not change you, not yet,” she assures Geralt. “And Jaskier may stay nearby, if you wish. But you may feel my presence. And it may feel strange.”

Geralt eyes here, still serious, before he finally nods. “Alright,” he says.

“Alright,” Yennefer echoes. She shifts closer to him on the bench and places on hand on the top of his head and the other in the center of his chest.

They both close their eyes.

As far as Jaskier can tell, nothing is happening. Eskel similarly is staring at them, but he doesn’t react at all either.

After a few moments, Geralt wrinkles his brow.

Nothing else happens. It’s several long, still moments until Yennefer pulls away from Geralt.

“Well?” Jaskier asks, unable to help himself.

Yennefer’s lip twitch. “I was able to understand the structure of the spell,” she says. “I will need a day or so to prepare it.”

Jaskier beams at her. “I knew you could,” he says.

“Of course I could,” Yennefer says.

“I still can’t believe you weren’t lying about being friends with a hot powerful sorceress,” Eskel teases.

“She’s Geralt’s friend,” Jaskier says automatically.

“He occasionally does have taste,” Yennefer says.

Geralt frowns.

“Yes?” Jaskier prompts, flicking his braid.

“None of the older witchers speak of friends when they return to the keep,” Geralt says, still looking thoughtful.

“Well, that is dreadful for them,” Jaskier says.

Eskel rests a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “You are lucky to have your friends, Geralt,” he says.

Geralt turns to him. “What of you?” he asks. “Do you have friends?”

“Not so many as you,” Eskel admits.

Geralt frowns harder.

“I was thinking,” Eskel starts, clearly changing the subject from himself, “that you might like to join me in hunting our dinner.”

“Really?” Geralt asks, lighting up immediately.

Jaskier smiles.

“Yeah,” Eskel says. “Go, get your sword.”

Geralt scampers off the bench, looking for all the world like a normal, excited child. It makes Jaskier’s heart ache. He wants to say something stupid, like “stay safe”, but he manages to bite it back.

Geralt, sword and dagger now attached, comes back and takes the hem of Jaskier’s shirt between his fingers. “Do you want to come with us?” he asks, his eyes flitting over to Yennefer briefly.

Jaskier does, feeling loathe to let Geralt out of his sight, and doesn’t, looking forward to sitting in a warm house instead of trapezing through the woods. “I am fine,” he settles on. “As much as I love watching you get covered in blood, I do believe the lady Yennefer has some wine.” He looks over at Yennefer and grins.

She rolls her eyes. “I do have wine. But I do not recall offering it to pestersome bards.”

Geralt scowls, but Jaskier just pouts dramatically. “Dearest Yennefer, I have been drinking naught but ale for months. I crave a drink with a fellow of good taste.”

“We are not fellows,” Yennefer says immediately, but he does stand up and sweep over to a cabinet, from which she pulls a bottle of wine, unlabeled, but rich in color.

Jaskier grins at her again. “I will be fine,” he assures Geralt.

Geralt continues to frown for a few seconds, but eventually he nods.

“Any requests, Lady Yennefer?” Eskel asks, settling his own sword on his back.”  
“Don’t destroy the foliage,” she says.

“Mystery meat it is then,” Eskel says. “Come on, Geralt.”

Geralt pats Jaskier’s arm gently in farewell before he follows Eskel out.

As soon as the door shuts, Jaskier has a wine glass in hand.

“I thought this wasn’t for pestersome bards,” he says, even as he takes a sip. Fuck, it’s good wine, strong and rich, aged and doubtlessly expensive.

“You looked like you needed it,” Yennefer says, sitting at the table and sipping from her own glass.

Jaskier takes the chair next to hers. “Do you know,” he says, “I haven’t been drunk for months.” He takes another, longer sip. “I suppose having a child will do that to you.”

“I’m surprised you don’t have any little bastards of your own,” Yennefer says, as dry as the wine they both drink from.

“I always use protection,” Jaskier says, perhaps a tad too defensive despite himself. “I insist upon it.” Because he does. He likes sex plently, but he has no desire to leave a child, unknown, possibly uncared for, behind him.

Yennefer makes a soft noise. “A child too much of a burden for you, bard?”

Jaskier frowns at her a little. “A child deserves a better life than I could give them.”

“Yes, your family estate and money would be such an inconvenience,” Yennefer drawls.

Jaskier isn’t surprised that she seems to know that he comes from nobility. He supposes it would be more shocking for her to have never figured it out. “Well, you don’t see me there, do you?” he points out. “I like my life as it is. Nomadic. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Not exactly the conditions that are recommended for children.”

“Unless they’re Geralt.”

Jaskier can’t help his laugh. “Geralt is already a witcher. And a terror.”

Yennefer looks at him, intense. “You are doing well with him,” she says.

Jaskier swallows, and looks at her back. “You know that’s no fault of yours,” he says, taking yet another large sip of wine. “Geralt doesn’t trust mages is all. You’re the only one he’s even agreed to meet. I didn’t really know, before, what was done to make witchers. I just knew it to be unpleasant.” He frowns at his wine glass, which is now somehow empty.

Yennefer refills it wordlessly.

“I imagine it was unpleasant for you as well,” Jaskier muses, though perhaps he shouldn’t. Should or should not, the thought makes him sad.

“That is one word,” Yennefer says lightly. “Was it unpleasant to become a bard?”

“No,” Jaskier says. “It was quite fun, actually.” He laughs again, bitterly now. “I didn’t know how unpleasant the world could be. Not until I met Geralt. And he...that first time...faced with the unpleasant truth of what had been done to the elves, he simply tried to spare them, and me. But not himself. I learned that day that the world was unpleasant and unfair, but that Geralt of Rivia was decidedly not.” Jaskier looks up at Yennefer, feeling his cheeks heat. He takes another sip of wine. “Sorry. I know, I know, I am a romantic fool.”

“A hazard of the profession I suppose,” Yennefer says kindly.

Jaskier laughs again. “A hazard of myself more like.”

“That does not have to be a bad thing,” Yennefer says.

“Ah, you are too kind to me, Yennefer,” Jaskier sighs.

“If you tell anyone I will have to kill you,” Yennefer says flatly.

Jaskier laughs. “Of course,” he says.

They sit in silence for a good while, emptying their glasses again.

It’s Yennefer who speaks once she’s refilled them once more. “You brought him to me. Why?”

“I knew I could trust you with him,” Jaskier says simply. “Remember? I know of your secret kindness.”

Yennefer takes a long sip of wine.

“Yennefer,” Jaskier says, feeling suddenly serious and sad and unable to hold it back.

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“He loves you,” Jaskier says. “I know he does.”

Yennefer looks at him for a long while, not even drinking, long enough that Jaskier begins to feel the stirrings of fear. Eventually she says, “He loves you as well, unfortunately.”

Jaskier laughs, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “I know,” he says. “Do you suppose he does?”

At least that gets Yennefer to laugh too. “No,” she says decisively, startling Jaskier into more laughter.

Jaskier lays his head down on the table. “Thank you for the wine, Yennefer of Vengerburg.”

She pats his shoulder gently.

He must fall asleep, because the next thing he’s aware of is Geralt’s voice. It sounds agitated, harsh and upset. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing.” That’s Yennefer.

“Why is he asleep?”

Jaskier feels a small hand shake his shoulder.

He blinks his eyes open and sees Geralt, head tilted to peer at him. “Oh, Geralt,” he says. “How was the hunt?”

“Fine. What has happened to you?” Geralt insists, voice anxious.

“Nothing,” Jaskier assures him. “I’m just a bit tipsy that’s all. Apologies.”

Geralt frowns at him. “Tipsy?” he repeats.

“Not quite sober, not quite drunk,” Jaskier says. “Yennefer’s wine, as it turns out, is both delicious and strong.”

Geralt continues to frown.

“Come now, Geralt, don’t the older witchers do stranger things while drunk than nap a bit on a table?”

“I suppose,” Geralt allows, but he still looks unhappy.

He continues to look serious all throughout dinner, looking between Jaskier and Yennefer. Jaskier tries not to be disheartened. They had made such progress earlier, he thought.

At least Geralt offers Yennefer a goodnight before she sweeps into her room and they settle on the cots.

Jaskier wakes in the early morning light to Geralt slipping out of bed.

“Geralt?” he asks sleepily.

“I...I need to relive myself,” Geralt says. “Go back to sleep, Jaskier.”

Jaskier forces his eyes open to peer at him. Geralt looks fine, and Jaskier can see both Yennefer and Eskel already up in his periphery, so he sighs, resigned to the fact that as a mere mortal he needs the most sleep. “Alright,” he says.

He is curious though, quite sure that Geralt was lying, and unsure why. He tries to keep his breathing deep and even enough to pass for sleep in Geralt’s witcher senses.

Geralt’s voice when he speaks is low, but the room is small enough that Jaskier can still hear him. “Yennefer.”

“Yes?” she says, voice also low.

“Do you mean Jaskier harm?” Geralt asks bluntly, his low voice harsher.

“No,” Yennefer says, and it’s honest, simply, nothing in it of the teasing she and Jaskier give to each other. “I promise you, Geralt, I will not harm your bard.”

Geralt is quiet for a long time, probably staring her down. Jaskier doesn’t dare open his eyes to check, but he wishes he could see their staring contest.

It’s Geralt who finally relents. “I will trust you,” he says.

“Thank you,” Yennefer says, and she sounds like she means it. “I notice that you don’t ask about my intentions towards you. It is afterall, you I’m preparing the counterspell for.”

“Magic does not affect me, the way it affects humans,” Geralt says. “Not anymore.”

“No,” Yennefer agrees. “But you are not immune. Obviously.”

Geralt huffs a little. “Obviously,” he agrees.

“You are very protective of him,” Yennefer says. “That much has not changed.”

“What do you mean?” Geralt demands.

“Nothing,” Yennefer says lightly. “Just an observation.”

“Hm,” Geralt says.

There’s another long silence before Jaskier hears his feet cross back to bed, and feel him lift the blanket to slide back in.

“Relieved?” he asks Geralt.

“Hm,” Geralt says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't truly understand the magic system in The Witcher, other than it reminds me of alchemy in Fullmetal Alchemist. Let's just go along with it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer makes a spell.

Yennefer starts the next morning by preparing...something. Some kind of mixture that involves a lot of strange smells and lumps of...stuff that Jaskier can’t identify.

“What is all this?” he asks.

“Agents,” Yennefer replies. “For Geralt’s spell.”

Geralt peers over her shoulder. “What will you do?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.

“The problem is time,” Yennefer says. “I will be moving time back through your body to age you once more.”

Jaskier has no idea how such a thing works.

Geralt also looks thoughtful. "Where will I go?" he asks.

“What do you mean?” Yennefer asks, smooth as butter.

“When I am older. Where will who I am now go?”

Yennefer looks at him thoughtfully. “Nowhere,” she promises. “Time can be a tricky thing to work with. I am going to have to pass the time that was removed from you back through you. It is doable. And, I suspect, you will have all your memories intact, including these. In a human, there would be the risk of madness. But as a Witcher, I believe that your brain will be able to cope. Your mind is a bit different, after all.”

“It is?” Geralt asks quietly, touching his head gently.

Yennefer nods. “Witchers have a longer life span. Their brains need to be able to intake centuries worth of information without decay.”

“Oh,” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier hadn’t thought of that at all, he has to admit. He knows that Geralt is at least a century old at his proper age, but he hadn’t really thought of what that meant physically. “Is that why you’re so wise, Yennefer?” he teases, because Geralt looks upset.

Yennefer rolls her eyes at him. “If only I could push time through  your brain,” she says.

Geralt frowns at them.

“You said it would be simple?” Jaskier prompts Yennefer.

“Yes,” she assures them. “I need some time, of course, to prepare a spell. But I will have it done. As I was saying, the process may be painful. It’s not just Geralt’s mind that will need to have time put back into it, but his body as well. You will grow very much in quite a short amount of time,” she warns him.

Geralt simply shrugs. “I do not care if it hurts,” he says.

“I am sure you don’t,” Yennefer says, almost a murmur. “Nevertheless. I would not want you to be unprepared.”

Geralt shrugs again.

"Do you have more questions?" Yennefer asks.

Geralt shakes his head. But then still asks, "When will your spell be ready?"

"This evening," Yennefer says.

Geralt hums non-committaly. "Will you need anything from me?"

Yennefer shakes her head. "Only your presence, when the time comes."

Geralt nods and stands. "I will be outside,” he tells them, before leaving the cabin.

Jaskier, Yennefer, and Eskel watch him go.

"He is unsettled,” Yennefer says.

Jaskier bites back a quip about her observational skills and mind reading abilities. "I'll go after him," he says.

It turns out that Geralt hasn't gone far. Just a bit away, by a near stream.

"Hey," Jaskier greets, announcing his presence even though he knows that Geralt heard him approach.

Geralt only tilts his head.

"Nervous?" Jaskier asks. "It's okay if you are. I would be."

Geralt shrugs. "There is something I have not told you,” he says, quietly. “I have not told anyone, just as I was instructed.”

"Well, I wont tell anyone you told me," Jaskier promises, smiling a little.

“I know," Geralt says. He's silent for a while, but Jaskier lets him, be, watching, waiting.

Finally, Geralt takes another breath. "They say that I responded will to the trials. I was not sick after for as long as the other boys. So they wish to try again. To see what kind of Witcher two rounds of trials will produce."

Jaskier doesn't say anything. It makes sense, explains the differences between this Geralt and the adult one he knows so well. The hair, mostly, and the pigment in his skin. And vague things that he's heard Geralt mention before, things Jaskier had not understood at the time.

"I... I donot want to go through the trials again," Geralt admits. "I have been dreading them." He says it as if he's confessing a sin. "Even knowing now that I must survive does not make the thought any easier to bear. " He hangs his head.

Jaskier scoots closer, close enough to feel Geralt’s body heat, for Geralt toseel his. After a long moment of silence, he speaks. "You do survive, Geralt. You survive a great many things, a great deal of them unpleasant, I think. Perhaps growing again will be one of them. I would take them all from you if I could. But Geralt, if you would rather wait, or indeed, not go through with this at all, then that is alright. None of us will force you to do it."

Geralt stares at Jaskier openly. "I thought...Do you not want me to return to my older self?"

"I won’t lie and say that I do not miss him," Jaskier admits. "He is my friend, a beloved companion. But I care about  you , Geralt, I care about you ao you are now, as you were then, and as you will be. That will never change."

Geralt stares at Jaskier, eyes wide. Then he moves, one moment beside Jaskier, one moment in his lap, arms wrapped around him, face buried in Jaskier’s chest.

Jaskier cups one hand around Geralt’s head, and puts the other on his back, rubbing circles with his fingertips.

They stay like that a long time. Jaskier holds Geralt as his breath shudders and his body shakes, continues to hold him even as he calms, as he steadies. Jaskier will hold Geralt for as long as he wants to be held.

When Geralt does eventually pull back, he doesn't go far. "I will do it," he says. "I...I want to be him again, the Geralt who you know."

"You are very brave," Jaskier tells him, tacking a curl behind his ear. "But be assured. You do not have to do it for my sake."

"I'm not," Geralt assures him. "I want to know him too."

Jaskier smiles at him. "You are worth knowing, Geralt of Rivia."

Geralt smiles back at him, soft and sweet, dimples and tooth gaps flashing.

When they return to Yennefer's cabin, they find Eskel, banished outside.

"Yennefer is preparing, the spell," he explains, lips twitching. "The sigil seems to require a great deal of floor space, and she promised maiming were I to ruin any of it."

Geralt settles beside him, eyeing the lines of bottles and ingredients Eskel has laid out in front of him.

"Yennefer gave me the ingredients to refill my potion supply," Eskel says. "Said it was worth it to keep me busy and out of the way."

Jaskier laughs and Geralt smiles lightly.

"Want to help?" Eskel asks, offering Geralt a bundle of plants.

Geralt nods, looking eager.

Jaskier settles nearby to eavesdrop. His lute is inside and he doesn't want to risk Yennefer's wrath, but he has his notebook, tucked into his trousers. He writes out a few lyrics, he can't help himself, but he does take notes, forbidden Witcher potion secrets hidden away amongst his rhymes. With the way Eskel winks at him from time to, time, he's noticed. Jaskier smiles. Geralt's taught him a few of his potions, mainly swallow and cat, which he uses the most, and white honey, with its gentle, non-poisonous ingredients. Geralt is serious about Jaskier staying away from the more toxic ingredients, and vigilant about Jaskier handling the mildly toxic ones with gloves on, and only under Geralt's supervision.

As the sun starts to set, Yennefer opens the door.

They all turn to look at her.

She smiles slightly. "I am ready, Geralt, if you are."

Geralt's face settles into determination, his jaw going stern, the way it does as an adult, softened now only by the baby fat still on his face. He nods at Yennefer and stands. "I am ready."

"Good," Yennefer says.

They follow her back inside, Geralt first, followed by Jaskier and Eskel.

"Do not step on any of the lines," Yennefer instructs sharply.

On the ground is a large circle, drawn with something brown with the hint of green that Jaskier can't identify. There's another, smaller circle within it, and between them are symbols that Jaskier can only guess at, and a few words in elder that he recognizes. In the smaller circle is a design of crossing lines, symbols worked between them as well.

The center of it is blank.

"Jaskier, Eskel, go around and stay back," Yennefer orders. "Geralt, take your clothes off and get in the center."

"Take my clothes off?" Geralt repeats.

"Unless you'd like to burst out of these when you grow," Yennefer says. "Jaskier, grab him some of his usual clothes."

Jaskier does, and by the time he hands the bundle to Yennefer, Geralt is standing in the middle of the circle, his face carefully blank.

Eskel stays standing nearby, but Jaskier settles on the floor nearby, keeping his eye on Geralt.

“Are you ready, Geralt?” Yennefer asks.

Geralt in the circle, takes a deep breath and nods.

But when Yennefer raises her hands he shouts. “Wait!”

Yennefer’s hands drop as Geralt leaps out of the circle, careful not to smudge anything, and runs right into Jaskier’s chest, wrapping his arms tight around him.

Jaskier “oof”s softly as the breath leaves him, but he wraps his arms back around Geralt, hugging him tight.

“I am afraid, Jaskier,” Geralt whispers against his throat, only for Jaskier’s ears.

Jaskier kisses the top of his head. “I will be here for you,” he promises. “No matter what happens, alright? Even if Yennefer turns you into a frog.”

Geralt laughs quietly.

Jaskier holds him close as long as he likes, until Geralt pulls back. “I am ready,” he says. He has his lip between his teeth, but his face is set and determined.

“So brave,” Jaskier says, cupping his cheek.

Geralt shakes his head a little. “Not really,” he says quietly.

“You are. Every day that I’ve known you you’ve been so brave,” Jaskier tells him.

Geralt wraps his hand around Jaskier’s wrist, eyes wide. “You will not...I mean. I know that I have not been...that my behavior has not been fitting of a witcher. I hope that if I do grow, how I acted does not make you think less of him.”

“Never,” Jaskier promises. “And you have done nothing wrong. You’ve taken a strange situation in stride, and used it to thrive. I am constantly impressed by you, Geralt.”

Geralt smiles, just a bit, his dimples coming out. “Youre just trying to make me cry again,” he accuses.

“Funny,” Jaskier says, poking at the dimple.

Geralt laughs and ducks away, grinning again. He steps carefully back into the circle, takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and nods at Yennefer.

She raises her hands again.

Jaskier can feel the thrum of pacer, of magic, pulsing through the air, making the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. An invisible power whips around Geralt, making his hair float. He's fine one moment, then screaming the next, falling to the ground.

Jaskier locks his body so he doesn't try to go to him and accidentally ruin everything. He feels Eskel rest a hand on his shoulder.

Then, suddenly, it's over.

The energy in the room dissipates. Geralt is still on the ground in the center of the circle, except he's much bigger now, muscles and height, all pale skin and hair.

Eskel lifts his hand from Jaskier's shoulder and brings it back down again a few times, patting him. "Looks like you got your man back," he says.

Jasper laughs, startled. "Looks like," he says, distractedly, because Geralt has just started to stir.

He groans, shaking his head a little as he sits up.

"Geralt?" Yennefer asks.

"Yennefer?" Geralt looks around the room. "Fuck."

Jaskier smiles.

"How do you feel? "Yennefer asks, the look on her face genuinely concerned.

"Cold," Geralt grunts.

"Jaskier get clothes for you," Yennefer says, gesturing to the pile. Jaskier could swear her mouth twitches, just a little.

Geralt grabs it, still not making eye contact with anyone. He dresses quickly and is out the door before Jaskier can say anything.

Jaskier sighs. "I'll go get him again," he says, standing.

He finds Geralt by the river again, standing this time, looking out across the water. "Geralt?" he calls out, trying to gauge if he's receptive to company.

Geralt hums, but it's not angry or dismissive, so Jaskier steps closer.

"Are you...alright?" he asks awkwardly. It's not exactly what he wanted to say, but he’s suddenly uncertain where they stand.

"Hmm," Gerald says helpfully. Then adds, "I am fine."

"Okay," Jaskier says. He feels lost again, as wrong-footed and confused as he had when first faced with Geralt as a child. He steps a bit closer, boldened a bit by Geralt's calm stance. It's the right guess.

"Thank you," Geralt says awkwardly. "I...I know I was a difficult child. Vesemir always said so. You did well."

"What do you remember?" Jaskier asks.

"Everything," Geralt admits.

"Then you remember that you weren't so bad," Jaskier says with a smile, even though Geralt still isn't looking at him. "You were cute."

"Cute," Geralt repeats, tone painfully blank.

"Cute," Jaskier insists, stepping closer again. "You had missing teeth and dimples and everything. Cute."

"All children lose teeth, " Gerald says.

Jaskier takes another step, bringing him to Geralt's side. "Do you still have dimples when you smile big? Will you give me a grin? Please, Geralt."

"No," Geralt says grumpily.

Jasper grins at him and takes his hand. "You were cute," he insists. "Not bad at all. Sweet, really."

"Sweet," Geralt grumbles.

Jaskier keeps grinning. "You said you liked my songs. I thought they were fillingless pie."

"You know they're not," Geralt says, a tired, familiar sigh in his voice.

"You were much nicer about them before," Jaskier pouts. "Maybe I should ask Yennefer to change you back."

Geralt growls, but he pulls Jaskier against his side.

Jaskier pokes him in the ribs, and Geralt pokes him back.

"You were very kind to me," Geralt says. "I did not know many kind people as a child. I...appreciated it."

"You had a crush on me," Jaskier sing-songs. "Because I was nice. Did you find me irresistibly beautiful and talented as well?"

Geralt growls again. "Jaskier.”

"Sorry, sorry, we were being serious," Jaskier says, kissing geralt's throat in apology. "I'm glad t was able to help you," he says honestly.

Geralt gently bumps their heads together. "You were a help," he agrees. And then adds, "For once."

"Guess you're not so sweet anymore," Jaskier says, but he can't stop smiling. "Do you still here a crush on me though? I'm just as nice and beautiful and charming as I was an hour ago."

"I'm strong enough now to throw you in the river," Geralt warns.

Jaskier presses closer to his side. "My dear, you've always been strong enough to throw me in a river. But you never have. Why is that?"

"Can't imagine," Geralt says. His tone is deadpan, but he tugs Jaskier closes and brushes his lips against his temple when he speaks, so Jaskier basks in the satisfied knowledge that Geralt still has a crush on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking through me with this! I loved seeing all your comments, and recognizing your names each chapter. It made me feel very special, and was beyond encouraging! I hope you guys enjoyed this as much as I did.
> 
> If you want to keep up with me I have a tumblr @winnifredburkle and Twitter @mrhd! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: I do not know how to play the lute. I did some research but when I saw "N"s in the musical notation I fled in fright. I do not understand the lute. My respect to anyone who plays it.


End file.
